


Curse

by MyersPumpkin



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game), Halloween Movies - All Media Types
Genre: Blood, Chains, Choking, Cuckolding, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Forced Orgasm, Hair-pulling, Humiliation, Kidnapping, Knifeplay, Marking, Multiple Orgasms, Ownership, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Sex, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Stalking, Suicidal Thoughts, Vaginal Fingering, Virgin Michael Myers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:35:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 101,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24181462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyersPumpkin/pseuds/MyersPumpkin
Summary: While living a normal life, the reader gets overwhelmed by the unexpected discover of being the object of a morbid obsession for Michael Myers, a man unknown to her, and this inexplicable and sick attraction ruins her life and starts her endless living hell.
Relationships: Michael Myers/Reader, Michael Myers/You
Comments: 122
Kudos: 524





	1. The Boogeyman

Living alone has always been something you enjoyed, even if that happened for short periods. You've never called yourself a solitary person, but surely you didn't mind spend some time on your own and be your own company. Lately, though, you couldn't really have a lot of personal space, given that you moved together with your boyfriend and, although this change had made you much happier and more satisfied, a little regret for never having enough private space was dozing somewhere in your unconsciousness.

For this reason, when your boyfriend announced that he was going to be away from home for a few months because of an important job with his company, your reaction wasn't extremely sad. Emotionally speaking, you weren't happy, of course, but you knew it wouldn't hurt either. First of all, you both knew that this job would only benefit you economically, allowing you to achieve more financial stability and, perhaps, finally get married; moreover, your sense of humor could also lift up your boyfriend's spirit: he was feeling more troubled by this brief but necessary change, as he would have spent months in a completely unknown place and, in general, because he was much less inclined to the idea of living alone. But it wasn't a big deal, after all. You knew you could handle it just fine. And, also, you were always ready to give him all the necessary psychological support, joking and sending him messages of various kinds that he would read later, when both of you weren't available to speak by phone, due to the different working hours. You would have filled his days. There was no need to be sad. Besides, he knew very well how much you wouldn't have been sorry to live alone for a little while. Everything was fine and there was no reason to feel bad.

The days passed with quiet, but during the last few weeks the work and its overtime were stressing you more than usual, along with a series of events that seemed to have the common intent to drive you crazy. For example, a dear friend of yours had recently had a crush on someone who was used to go to a pub not too far from your surroundings, therefore she often asked you to hang out and be her wingman; she also knew that you were alone and, although she was already conscious about your rather independent nature, she was used to joke about the fact that a kind and pretty girl like you shouldn't remain alone in a house for too long; so here is your friend almost stalking you with messages and phone calls to make sure you're okay. You loved your buddy, really, but sometimes she managed to be so persistent..! Another thing that started to get annoying was the dog of your neighbors: a huge puppy, adorable and playful, with whom you had also made friends, but who in the last nights tended to bark so loud that woke you up in the middle of your sleep. Not even the neighbors could explain this strange behavior, so unusual, especially because, after several checks, there was nothing suspicious in the whole neighborhood. Nobody understood what alarmed the dog to such an extent and so frequently.

What was certain, however, was that you were quickly reaching your limit: sleep deprivation, intense work, a bit too demanding social life and all those housework that, in different conditions, you could manage easily; now they were postponed, with the result of finding yourself in a messy house and you running out of time and energy. You were often very tired earlier than expected, you tended to fall asleep on the sofa in front of the TV, you didn't even want to play some videogames and, moreover, you were becoming even more careless: you've always handled your daily life, you didn't call yourself a neat freak, but you certainly wanted to leave everything clean and in its place.

Lately, though, something was off. Like for example that day you did your laundry, carefully folded and stacked your shirts ready to be placed in the closet, but then you stood puzzled as you discovered that one of your favorite t-shirts was missing. You searched for it up and down, you were sure you had taken it with the rest of the laundry, yet you couldn't find it. Vanished into thin air. It had already happened that you couldn't find small objects or clothes, but lately the phenomenon had been intensifying. It annoyed you a lot, but you couldn't do anything about it and you ended up ignoring this latest episode, too, blaming your recent sloppiness. Or, that time when, during a quick shower, you realized that the bottle of your favorite bubble bath was already empty for more than a half of its capacity: you were sure it was much fuller, yet... It was absurd, but that day you didn't have time to stop and think about it, because you had to run to work. Other small details seemed to drive you crazy, lately: why was the bottle of your perfume in a different position from the one you remembered? Didn't you put your mail on the shelf near the entrance instead of on the table? And what happened to the elastic you always used to tie your hair into a soft braid before going to sleep?

There surely was a rational explanation, although still unknown, so the only plausible conclusion could only be one. You were stressed out. Lack of sleep and disturbed, in addition. Too much work. Too many energies required by your social life, as well as work. Too much still outstanding housework. Mentally exhausted to say the least. Your recent carelessness could only be a natural consequence; from time to time, you joked about it with your boyfriend during your phone calls, grinning and saying that the worst thing was that you couldn't even blame his clutter as responsible for the small and "mysterious" disappearances. You both laughed about it, finally agreeing that you really needed to slow down and give yourself some healthy relaxation.

Your chance finally came. Or rather, you created it.

Since work was finally returning to more easily sustainable rhythms, that weekend would have been yours and yours alone. It didn't matter how much your friend insisted on offering you a girls' night as a tempting way to recharge your energy. You didn't want anyone around you. For this weekend, you would have turned into a hermit. The neighbors' dog wasn't spending the night outside for a few days, since the whole neighborhood had already expressed several complaints and the owners of the pet had thought of keeping it inside, in the hope of understanding in the meantime the reason for such unusual behavior. As for you, you would have caught up with the housework, you would have cleaned the house and tidied up, but before anything else you would have slept, and you would have done it during that evening totally dedicated to yourself. You wouldn't even have cooked, too much energy. It didn't suit your plan; all hail the take away on your way back home!

In fact, that evening you came home from work and, having closed the door behind you, you dropped your bag on the floor; then, you closed your eyes and leaned your back along the shut door. Silence. An intense, wonderful silence. Broken only by your long, deep sigh of relief and the muffled sound of the wind blowing outside. You remained silent, in the dark, with your eyes still closed, intent on savoring that moment that heralded your evening, dedicated solely and exclusively to yourself. A small, gloating smile was drawn on your face and you opened your eyes: you took off your shoes and jacket without too much care, your muted phone still in its pocket; you would have taken it later, only to tell to your boyfriend about your plan for the evening, avoiding making him worry when he had time, later, to call you without receiving any news or response from you.

You were tempted to consume your take-out dinner in a hurry so as to take a shower and finally go to sleep, but you had almost forced yourself to relax, then you proceeded to pamper yourself a bit: you laid the table, you only turned on the soft lights and, while dinner was warming up in the oven, you had taken your cell phone just to notify your boyfriend; then, ignoring the other messages from the different chats, you turned it off. You would have dealt with them tomorrow. Meanwhile dinner was ready, so without further ado you sat comfortably and dined.

The half-light in which your entire neighborhood was enveloped relaxed you and gave your solitary dinner a halo of charm and peace: the feeling of quiet you needed so much. Too lost in these pleasurable sensations, you missed the shape of a man approaching your window and drawing his shadow on half your shoulder and table. Someone was watching you from outside, still like a statue, until a sudden shiver ran down your spine, making you stiffen in a heartbeat. But as you turned your head to watch behind you, unbeknownst to you, the shape was already gone. You let that shiver roll off your back and returned to your dinner.  
As soon as you finished, you couldn't resist the idea of leaving further mess, therefore you limited yourself only to clearing: the dishes would have been washed the next day. It seemed like a fair compromise.

The real irresistible call now was a hot shower. Long, relaxing, enveloping. The mental image of hot water and the foam of your favorite bubble bath while washing away dirt and stress was extremely tempting. Without further ado, you went to your room, took a nice clean underwear set, improvised pajamas with comfortable sweatpants and an old oversized t-shirt, then your slippers, and you went to the bathroom. While you waited for the water to get hot, you undressed, removed your glasses and started to pull your hair back into a large bun on your head: you had already washed it in the morning, just to avoid having to spend too much time in the evening, before getting in bed. In fact, your hair still smelled of your shampoo, with a fruity and fresh fragrance. Meanwhile the mirror was covered with steam, the water was hot and you entered the tub, ready for your long hot shower.

The hot water flowing on your skin made you shiver at first, due to the sudden temperature change, but shortly afterwards your body began to get used to the new temperature and to relax gently: the jet of water that ran along your naked body was like a heavenly caress and you, with your eyes closed, savored that moment of ecstasy in silence. And perhaps it was precisely the roar of the water and that hypnotic sense of perdition in the heat that didn't make you notice how a light stream of cold air had entered the room, snaking through your bathroom; a breath of air that lasted only a few seconds, since the window that had been opened, allowing cold air to enter - and not only that - had already been carefully and silently closed again.

The water flowed quickly and warmly on your body, you opened your eyes and, turning your back to the door, you grabbed the bottle of body wash. As you squeezed a large portion of it into the palm of your hand, the door behind you opened slowly, just enough for one eye to peek at your naked and wet body; you were still unaware to be greedily and silently stared. You put the bottle of bath foam back on, ready to soap you, when instinctively your gaze darted to the door: you left it open, right? You didn't give too much importance to that detail that casually had crossed your mind, and you proceeded to wrap yourself in the scented foam, whose sweet and floral fragrance would have cheered you all night long. Relishing the moment, you started humming an old song that occasionally came back to your mind, filling the air with your notes; the rush of hot water on your body and on the shower tiles accompanied your hum. Too many sounds that prevented you from hearing the hiss of someone's nose as he deeply breathed in the scent of your bubble bath hovering in the air that by now also intoxicated your adjacent bedroom.

When the last cloud of foam was washed away from your body, with a last spray of hot water behind your neck, you ended your long shower, closing the tap and wrapping yourself in a towel; then you left the tub and wore your slippers. Having secured the towel just above your breast, you proceeded to brush your teeth, while absentmindedly watching the indefinite colored mass that constituted your reflection on the mirror, now completely clouded by steam. With one last rinse, you put the toothbrush back in its place and, without looking and in an almost automatic gesture, you reached out to grab underwear and pajamas, so as to dress you while staying in the warmth of your bathroom.

Your reaction could only be defined stunned when your hand didn't find your clothes: they weren't where you left them. Or, at this point, where you thought you left them. But they had to be there, you always place your clothes there.

After a few moments of puzzled hesitation, you wore your glasses and you peeked outside the bathroom door to take a look at your bedroom: the clothes were right there, at the foot of your bed, in fact. Almost relieved and with a little shrug, you smiled to yourself, thinking about how silly you felt for thinking that there might be someone in the house.

Yeah. Impossible.

You were alone, you were sure of it. You also locked the front door. As always, of course.  
You approached the bed, grabbed your underwear. Lately, however, you were rather careless, there was no doubt. You were about to take off the towel still wrapped around your body. One hand still held the underwear in midair: you stayed still. Silence. For sure, you didn't expect to hear the neighbors' dog bark. Still motionless, and then an afterthought: maybe it wouldn't hurt to double check that the door and windows were closed, right? After all, a little more prudence is always good. You put your underwear on the bed and took a short tour of the house; the circumspection with which you looked around painted a rather clear image in your mind: you could clearly portrait yourself with your hair still in your messy bun, a towel around your body and armed with your slippers. Come on, you were ridiculous. And both the door and the windows were tightly locked, just as you remembered. What nonsense were you thinking? And by the way, the mess around was enough to put any attacker on the run!

You smiled, thinking how much you were already worrying, imagining that someone sneaks into the house in total silence just to make his presence known by moving underwear and pajamas. You slightly giggled and then walked to the bathroom, untying your hair and unhooking the towel; you put it back in place and returned humming in your bedroom, looking for your clothes.  
The warm and soft light of the only lamp you had chosen to turn on gently caressed your naked and perfumed body. You put on your panties and decided to avoid the bra, so as to sleep more comfortably; not that by the way you really needed a bra: you could have easily won the prize for the smallest boobs in the world, if there had been one! Then you put on your huge old t-shirt, big enough to look like a little dress on you and, looking at yourself in the mirror, you smiled noting with self-deprecating complacency how it didn't make you look sexy at all. Having put on your sweatpants too, you just had to tie your hair in your usual braid, so as to avoid that scarecrow look when you wake up the next morning.

Sitting on the edge of your bed, you removed your glasses and proceeded to tie your hair, without taking your eyes off your pillow; lock after lock, the desire to dive into its softness grew more and more. Maximum braid length reached. It was up to the elastic now. As you wrapped it around the end of your soft braid, you wondered what had happened to the one you always used before it disappeared. The braid was done! Without waiting any longer, you lifted the blankets of your bed, put your legs under them and, sitting up, leaning slightly, you turned off the lamp next to your bed. Darkness. Silence. With voluptuous laziness, you stretched out on your bed, wrapping yourself completely under the sheets and embracing the pillow as if it was an old friend met after a long time: finally, every single part of your body stretched out lying on the comfortable mattress. Waves of relaxation vibrated in your body: you had desired this moment so much.

And so, blissfully, you closed your eyes.

-

The feeling of gently sliding into the unconsciousness of sleep was something you didn't always witness, but when it did, it was always a pleasant experience. This was one of those times. You knew you were falling asleep, but you still retained a part of your consciousness and wallowed in it. It was nice to see the dream you were heading towards come to life and you felt that soon you would have slipped into unconsciousness, totally abandoned to what your mind would have created to entertain your restful sleep. You already seemed to glimpse something in your dream, even if you were still not sure what it was. What you were sure of, however, was the sound of the wind that you heard blowing in the dream. It was strange, more like a breeze, but it didn't seem to be a crisp sound, no; rather, it seemed somehow muffled and rhythmic, and seemed to grow in intensity as time passed. At some point, that wind seemed to have become more noisy, as if it were blowing directly into your ears.

Meanwhile, your consciousness was still sliding into the oblivion of sleep, but its fall seemed to slow down.

Something in your position changed and you felt hanging more on one side. Your consciousness was slowly coming back. Something weighed on one side of the bed, immediately balanced on the opposite side. You felt like you were on a small narrow boat, lazily cradled by the waves of a lake. You weren't completely asleep yet, but this dream felt so real! That wind was whispering in your ears, your body swinging between the two slopes on the sides of your hips and you also felt a slight feeling of cold. Your mind recalled your consciousness, almost ordering it to wake up and, after a few seconds, your eyes began to reopen. You were still lying on your stomach as your hands began to wander around, searching for your blankets, but you couldn't find them. Still stunned by the sleep that had almost entirely swallowed you up until a few moments before, your head turned lazily to one side, while your eyes, still half-closed, cast their gaze around aimlessly. The dream was fading, yet that wind remained. In a further effort, your consciousness finally resurfaced: that wind was neither a wind nor a breeze. There were no lakes or boats. That wind was a breath and what made you shiver in dread was that the breath was real!

Your eyes shoot open in alarm, there was someone straddling you. Rapidly you inhaled, your mouth opened instinctively, ready to shout in pure terror, but the scream was suffocated in your throat. In fact, a huge hand had just covered your mouth, pulling you backwards at the same time, so that your back was now so bent that you feared it would break. The pressure of the position pressed on your neck, making even something simple and natural such as breathing difficult. Let alone shout.

Your head was pressing on your attacker's chest: a man, no doubt, big, huge, strong. You didn't think you could be even more terrified than you already were, but you were wrong. From the new position, you could see, albeit with difficulty considering the enveloping darkness, how the face of your attacker was of an unnatural, almost ghostly pallor. Emotionless. Still like a statue. Your tugs, desperate, weak and useless attempts to wiggle free, didn't move him even an inch. Your hands grabbed frantically onto his wrist, in a desperate attempt to free yourself from his grip. You needed to breathe. But it was like trying to move a mountain with bare hands. You were lacking air, the pressure was pulsing into your buzzing ears. Again, a pathetic, weak punch somewhere on his side. But his grip was still steady like steel. He was in total control.  
Yet, he remained motionless.

Your vision started to blur, black spots appeared before your eyes while your body was losing that little bit of strength left. His white and expressionless face kept staring at yours, agonizing and terrified, his powerful hand still pressing against your mouth and nose. Your body started to go entirely limp, when he finally loosened his grip slightly, allowing you to weakly breathe again. But your mouth remained covered. The message, or rather, the warning was clear: be quiet. Being able to breathe more easily, you felt your senses return to you, but the pressure from your neck to your ears and the unnatural and uncomfortable arching of your back made even the simplest movement difficult, so that you could no longer even consider the idea of escape, desperately begged by your survival instinct. That same idea was more than unwanted to your attacker, because, just as you thought about how to get free, the man had raised his other hand at your throat, placing on something hard and cold whose sharp tip was dangerously pressed flat against your soft skin. It didn't take long to realize that it was a knife, and rather large, too. It was more than enough to dissuade you from any possible attempt to escape or fight.  
And he seemed to understand it instantly.

He removed his knife from your throat and, with a slight and perhaps even pleased grunt, let go of his hand from your mouth, causing you to fall back on your stomach. You turned your head to the side just before it met the pillow, sucking in air as if it were your first breath. Still panting and frightened, you pushed on your forearms to slightly lift yourself and then you turned to take a better look at your attacker, poorly  
illuminated by the faint light of the night: you were struck by his unsettling pale face that you now understood to be a latex mask. That explained his expressionlessness, together with the muffled sound of his breathing; the rest of his body was huge, broad and clearly muscular, dressed in what seemed to be a dark mechanic overall. Impossible to deduce the exact color, though: it was too dark for that. Your trapped and frightened prey gaze flew over his hand, which still held the knife tightly, the same knife that was dangerously pointed at your throat until a few seconds before. Another shiver ran down your spine and the man seemed to smell it, just like a predator smells the fear of his prey.

You both stood looking at each other in the silence of your room. Unnatural, given the brief scuffle of a few minutes earlier. The air was heavy with tension. The man stood motionless, still on top of you, his huge chest rising and sinking rhythmically with each breath, the knife still clenched in his right hand. Your heart was racing, while the man's breath became louder. He didn't want you to shout but, maybe with the right approach, you could have convinced him to let you go. He could have easily slaughtered you, choked you, broken your back or neck before, but he hadn't. You didn't know why he was there with you, but whatever his reason was, perhaps you could reason with it. At least you had to try.

Unfortunately, not a single decent word seemed to come to your mind.

You briefly babbled something meaningless, and the man tilted his head slightly, acknowledging it, as if he were wondering about the meaning of your unclear sound.  
Then slowly you turned around under his imposing figure still looming over you. He remained motionless, never taking his eyes off you. Your wide eyes stared at the darkness behind the eye slits of his disturbing mask, your breath jumped from your quivering lips, making your evident state of terror unmistakable. But the man said nothing, did nothing. Just his growing, heavy breathe. You tried to sit up. This sparked a reaction. In the exact moment you tried to sit down, the man sprang quickly on you, pushing you by the shoulders and slamming you against the mattress. You jolted, but immediately your hands flew to your mouth, as if you could swallow back that faint moan of fear that instinctively escaped from your lips.

The man was now even closer to you, pinning you to your bed, the nose of his latex mask a few inches from your face, his black holes buried their gaze in your wide, terrified eyes. It was like staring into an abyss. Tears started to wet the corners of your pleading eyes, but you tried your best not to make a single sound, as if your life depended on your ability to keep silence. The abyss of those eyes remained buried in you, giving you more time to adapt to the darkness and you swore to catch a glimpse, albeit with difficulty, of something in that abyss: the slight glow of two human eyes, wide open and locked on yours.

Too lost in that realization, your mind didn't capture the movement of the right hand of your silent and mysterious attacker, still armed with the dreaded kitchen knife, until its tip began to lift the edge of your t-shirt. You blinked, processing what was happening. Your gaze darted to his knife, almost as if you wanted to be sure he was really lifting your shirt, then stared back to his eyes. He stripped you slowly and without hesitation, so to reveal your naked breast, but his eyes were still watching your face. The cold blade now rested flat on your bare skin, giving you a more accurate idea of its size. You winced, instinctively shutting your eyes, but he didn't move. He was still observing your face, you could feel it. For several, endless moments, you thought your time had come, you expected to feel your chest pierced by the cold blade at any moment and you waited. And you waited. Silence. Broken only by his heavy breathing. Then he started to move the blade, dragging it flat from your chest to your belly and, with a controlled movement, he shifted his knife, whose tip was now under the waistband of your sweatpants. This made your eyes shoot open in alarm again.

Blood rushed through your veins, your heart beat echoing in your chest; you wanted to scream in terror, squirm and run away from that monster, but you knew that such an act wouldn't guarantee you any chance of survival. The tip of the knife meanwhile gently touched the skin of your abdomen and slipped under your panties. You swallowed your moan and held back the tears that had already formed on the edges of your eyes. He, without ever taking his eyes away from your face, slowly and relentlessly dragged the tip of his knife between your legs, forcing you to open them to avoid contact with its sharp edges. Then, he placed the flat surface between your clit and the tight lips of your small entrance. You could feel the tip of the knife piercing your panties where the fabric moved away from your skin, while your body started releasing heat on the cold and feared steel. You had goosebumps, you were terrified, but you couldn't help but remain motionless, suspended in the terrifying awareness that even the smallest gasp would make you remain skewered in your private parts.

Without ever taking his eyes off your face, the man proceeded to slowly push the flat part of his blade against your labia, making your blood freeze with terror and your cheeks blush with embarrassment. Your lips parted to speak but no sound came out. He tilted his head again and stopped; then, carefully, he pulled the knife from under your clothes and brought it to his nose: he deeply inhaled your scent impressed on his weapon mixed with the steel and this seemed to inebriate him for a few moments.

Before your mind could process it, a faint and whining "Please" ran from your lips as tears began to flow from your eyes. No reaction. Maybe he was considering your plea? You tried to continue, hoping to reawaken his sense of pity, if he had any. "Please, let me go. You can-- take what you want, but please, let me go. I won't tell anyone--"  
His huge hand flew straight to your neck, squeezing it and making you jump. He squeezed just enough to make you swallow any other sound that you could make that weren't weak and suffocated gurgling. For a few seconds, you thought his fingers would break your neck, ending this nightmare. But it wasn't his plan. You closed your eyes and raised your trembling hands in surrender. The hold remained firm, but less intense. You were breathing again. His hand was now just holding you in place. Keeping your eyes shut, you did everything to remain silent and as still as possible.

Warning received: be quiet.

After a few seconds, you opened your eyes again: he was holding you firmly by the neck, while his other hand still wielded that bloody knife. You swallowed your saliva with a bit of effort. Your glances glued to each other. Then he focused his attention to your sweatpants and dropped the knife. His now free hand grabbed their waistband and started tugging them down, revealing your panties, the last form of pathetic defense that separated your intimacy from his greedy gaze. You wanted to squirm away, but there was no hope you could do it, so you started to silently sob at the idea of what was coming for you. His breathing became louder and faster, unmistakable, and with rapid tugs, he finally took off your sweatpants and threw them to the side. Soon after, the hand reached for the knife. Without ever wobbling the hold on your neck, the man, almost panting, slipped the blade of the knife between your left thigh and the edge of your underwear and with a clean stroke he cut the fragile fabric. Then he switched to the right side and cut that one, too, revealing your hairy crotch to his hungry gaze. He was panting so noisily now. You could feel his eyes travel along your naked body beneath him, completely helpless and at his mercy. In a hurry, he dropped his knife and grabbed your torn underwear, roughly dragging it off with quick tugs; he brought it to his nose, taking in your smell greedily and he groaned; then he quickly brought your underwear to his side, as if he were putting it in a pocket. He grunted and you began to tremble and whimper. He let go of your neck, only to grab the zip of his jumpsuit and he tugged it down, shrugging his sleeves off and past his hips with a strong sense of urgency, while abundant tears poured silently from your eyes, streaming the skin of your face, until they plunged into your hair. Then he quickly pulled down his boxer briefs too, freeing his fully erect cock. It was huge, massive. You couldn't have expected anything different, given his size, yet it seemed disproportionately larger. He kept watching your shivering figure as he grabbed it and stroked it briefly in his huge hand, making you sick to your stomach.

Hastily, he came on top of you, caging you in his arms and slamming his cock on your belly; he started rutting against you, rubbing it blindly, without control. He was somewhat clumsy, as if he didn't know exactly how to get his immediate release, and this seemed to make him progressively more impatient. He shifted his weight slightly to one side of his body so that the other hand could look for your hole. His palm touched your clit and this caused a reaction in you. Primordial. Disgusting. You hated it.  
Reaction that he, despite his urgent lust, noticed. He began to rub the area around your clit with his hand, exploratory and clearly inexperienced. Your body started to react in the most natural way it knew, while your mind completely disagreed with its primordial impulses. You closed your eyes, trying to maintain some kind of concentration. As if you could have prevented your fluids from starting to get you wet, making you even more appealing to the man looming over you who was now more similar to a chained wild animal in heat.

Your fluids led his fingers to your entrance, allowing him to slide in much more easily. He filled you with only two fingers and you couldn't help thinking that if you felt full with only two of his fingers, how would it have been once he had penetrated you with that huge and hard cock that for now was only rubbing against your side?  
Pure terror. Disgust. But your body responded differently.

His fingers seemed to look for something inside you, desperately; your walls, with a short initial spasm, clenched on him and he grunted again. Instinctively, you broke the silence with a pleading: "Please, stop!" and your hands flew to his wrist, in the vain attempt to stop that unwanted intrusion. He just didn't like it. He grunted menacingly and squeezed his fingers, grabbing you from inside and slightly lifting your pelvis. You gasped, feeling yourself burning from inside and let go instantly. He held you up like that for a few seconds, the flames spreading all over your inner walls, and then he dropped you back down on the bed. He pulled out his fingers covered with your liquids, grabbed one of your legs, hooking it on the outside of his side and readjusted his position. He grabbed his cock, lining it up against your wet hole. You held your breath and closed your eyes, expecting him to slam it into you at any moment. Its fat tip nudged against your wet entrance and, as he pushed, he slipped, sliding out and stroking your clit with its length. A slight moan escaped from your mouth and your mind gasped for control over your most primordial impulses.  
Reason why you tried to resist him again. Your other leg that remained open but between his legs, in fact, foolishly came between your pussy and his cock in order to avoid his second attempt to penetrate you. That was the last straw.  
Quickly, he got up on his knees and repositioned your legs inside his; then he grabbed your waist and without any effort he flipped you over onto your stomach, pinning you to the mattress with one hand pressed on your back. Your eyes widened in pure terror at the idea of him going to take you from behind. Not being able to see what was going to happen was probably even worse for you and your other senses became more alert. You gave up. He pushed one knee between your legs; then, helping himself with his other hand, he roughly spread your legs. Your hands grabbed your pillow to hold it against you, while he, letting go of your back, took you by the hips with such strenght that he would leave bruises for the next day. 

Well, if you are still alive to see them the next day.

Your ass was lifted in front of him and you could feel him repositioning and realigning with your entry. You arched your back, hoping that he took the right angle of penetration: reducing the pain was all you could aspire to by now.  
His big, throbbing tip poked your little, craved hole and, with a quick and ruthless motion, he slammed into you.  
The stretch was huge. Painful. You screamed behind clenched teeth, sinking into your pillow, so desperately pressed to you. The friction of your hole and your walls still too narrow to accommodate its size stopped his thick cock halfway through. He was too big, too hard. You wanted to cry, shout. Then he withdrew it, leaving only the tip inside, and you closed your eyes waiting for his second dive inside you, which arrived with little patience and care. His cock ripped through you, stopped only by your cervix, and he kept pushing. Violently. Greedily. Your heat and your damp and narrow walls briefly stunned him; with every impatient and sloppy thrust, you felt him trembling and marveling at the same time. His hands squeezed your hips harder, digging his fingers into your soft flesh with such greed as to seem pure fury, while he rudely pushed you against his cock again and again.

You did your best to relax and your body finally provided with more lubrication, starting to fit his shape. The initial pain was slowly fading away, leaving room for much more pleasant sensations that hurt and disgusted you on a deeper level than the mere carnal pleasure. And you said to yourself that it was just biology. Meanwhile, regardless of your inner struggles, he kept slamming into you mercilessly and fast with sloppy and inexperienced movements, the sound of his skin slapping yours, the creaks of your bed resounding in your room together with his animalistic grunts, thundering from his broad chest. He was quite vocal for someone who didn't speak a word yet. In his frantic race for his release, he accidentally hit a precise spot inside you, very pleasant: you winced and your soaked walls clenched around his cock.

This caught his attention.

He moaned and his breathing broke for a few seconds. Then he grunted and fell completely on you, wrapping his powerful arms around your belly and chest, violently harpooning his fingers in the flesh of your side and your breast, all without stopping to slam into you at his brutal and merciless pace. Your pussy bubbled wet and obscene sounds, quickening the arrival of his release. He held you firmly and glued to his body and you could hear him panting and grunting desperately on your neck, sounding like a true wild beast.  
His rhythm doubled, he was close. The hand, more like a claw, that was holding tight your bruised breast, dragged away from under your body to reach your head. He took a handful of your hair at the base of your scalp and part of what was left of your braid, and pulled with a quick tug. Your head was tilted in an uncomfortable arch, leaving exposed the slope between your neck and your shoulder, in which his face dove eagerly. His panting breath came out in hot puffs from his mask on your skin, his grunts roared louder and louder in your ear, while his hips continued frantically crashing into yours at a brutal and merciless pace, the sounds of sweaty skins contact echoing with every impact.  
His cock kept hitting that sweet spot inside you and you felt that familiar pressure dangerously building up. Your clenches became deeper and damn close, giving the man an additional, irresistible sense of blind pleasure.

It was just biology. But you had to hold on.

Fortunately, his pace began to wobble, his thrusts became more uneven and sloppy. He was close by now. You could resist. Finally he gasped and froze. His grip around your body intensified, making you fear to explode. Then, with a final, powerful push, he stiffened completely sunk into you. His body pressed flush against you, his nails were like blades into your skin as he, shaking, released streams of hot cum that flooded your squashed walls, while the excess was already spilling out of you and along your inner thigh. He grunted trembling and deeply straight into your ear; then it followed his long and echoing sigh, similar to a profound relief.  
At least, he had been quick.

-

Your half-closed eyes were staring blankly into space, while your mind was displaying all the possible variants of your now impending death. What else could he need you for, now that you had satisfied his sexual exploration? He had had his fun with you, so you expected nothing more than to be stabbed by his blade, so that he could reach the peak of his enjoyment. His full control. The final demonstration of his incomparable, immense power over you. While you, so little and naked, would have died like this, defenseless, with his cum dripping out of your small and abused hole, capable only of taking to your grave that little of dignity that you had managed to defend, preventing your body from having an orgasm caused by that monster's assault.

Monster that wasn't moving a single muscle yet. He was, in fact, still collapsed on you, his arms wrapped like chains around your body, his face still sunk in your collarbone. And his cock still in your depths. It would have softened sooner or later and this would have forced him to move. Or he would have pulled it out himself. The idea of escaping somehow came back to your mind. His orgasm had really overwhelmed him: he needed time to recover, right? Yes, maybe that would have been your only chance of salvation. But you were still a single body with him. You could only wait for his next move, even if you weren't sure you would be able to escape him, or even fight him. Then the thought of his superhuman strength came to mind. Yeah ... Who were you kidding? You would never have got out alive. You were exhausted, too. Part of you hoped to lose consciousness before he decided how to end your life, giving you the luxury of dying without realizing it. After all, it had started like this, hadn't it? Like a dream.  
You just wanted to sleep.

Your mute hysteria was waning in his hypnotic heartbeat resonating from his chest into your back, cradled by his regular breathing, and you felt you were softly close to black out. Then he slightly stroked his face on your collarbone and you came back to reality. He had recovered. Slowly he slipped from under your body the arm that still held your hips and then the other hand that had abused your scalp; he placed them on the sheets on your sides and rose gradually. The slight squeak of your bed followed his movements. He stood on his knees and finally pulled out, letting more of his cum dribbling between your folds. You felt him readjust behind you, and you didn't need to look at him to know that his gaze was contemplating the fruit of his savage assault on your overused and crumpled hole.  
Your mind went back to his knife. You hoped that he would grant you at least a quick and painless death, a kind of sick reward for your body that had satisfied his sexual urges, probably repressed throughout his life.

But the touch you felt was far from the cold blade of his knife. And you almost felt disappointed.

His huge and hot hand had just landed on your sodden entrance. Your eyes widened in confusion. His fingers began to move towards your hole: he was collecting his cum and your fluids dripped out, to plunge them back into you. You gasped and your muscles contracted. This pervert truly made you sick. His fingers filled your inside again as best they could and then he smeared the remaining fluids over all your pussy and part of your anus. He was marking you, as if you had been his property.

Disgust. Anger. It was so humiliating.

When he felt satisfied with painting your privates, the hand moved away and you felt him benting over you. His wet fingers searched for your face, making their way between your lips, and he put them in your mouth. He rubbed two of his slick fingers on your tongue, forcing you to taste the mixture of your fluids. You tried to move your head, avoid that further humiliation, but your attempts were discouraged by his deep, dark growl. He pressed again his fingers, clearly asking for your cooperation: you stood still and, holding back your sobs of crying, you licked them clean. Satisfied, he released your mouth and wiped his hand, spreading the remaining fluids and saliva on your lips and cheeks.  
He got up on his knees and stood looking at you: you could feel his gaze on you, but you didn't squirm away, you didn't cry, not even a single sob: what was even the point? Each attempt only reminded you how powerless you were. You just swallowed the bitterness that tied your throat.  
His calloused hands slipped under your shirt, looking for your shoulders; he stroked them, then let his hands wander along your shoulder blades and spine, and then stopped at the waist, sending shivers up and down your body. He grabbed you and he quickly flipped you over onto your back again, revealing your exhausted and whining face to his inscrutable gaze. Then he softly grabbed your legs, opened them wide and placed them out at his hips. Every movement was slow and controlled. Almost delicate. Nothing to do with the ferocity of just before.  
He stopped for a few seconds, contemplating your figure caressed by the night. His breathing became slightly heavier. He leaned forward, getting a little closer to you and a hand reached your hair, wiping away the strands scattered on your face. It almost seemed like he was caressing you. Then he untied what remained of your messy braid, strand after strand, until your hair was completely free. He lifted you slightly, running an arm from under your shoulders and gathered your hair with the other to bring it over your head. He put you back on the pillow, your face framed by your scattered hair, and he tilted his head.  
Contemplating you.

He looked at your chest and rearranged your shirt right under your chin, so as to expose your breast again. He inhaled sharply. His huge hands flew over you and he began to knead your small breast, completely swallowed up in his hot grip. He lightly pinched your already hardened nipples making you wince at the sharp sensation. He stopped in amazement and looked at you with curiosity, reopening his hands on your breasts. Then he continued his slow descent, sliding every single protuberance of your ribs under his hands, his rough calluses against your soft skin. He noticed how your waist narrowed as he descended, almost allowing the fingers of his hands to touch each other. And then your body turned wider again, his palms travelling on the soft curve of your hips.  
His nose hissed with another sharp inhale. His hands slipped under your ass and, grabbing a large handful of your flesh, he lifted you up and placed you on his lap. Your legs spread even wider, your cunt completely exposed to his gaze.  
Instinctively, you clenched down. His breathing quickened. It was only then that you felt something hot twitch on your crotch. Immediately followed by the dreaded realization that he was hard again.

No. Not again. This time you wouldn't have been able to resist, you knew it, you felt it. You feared it.

Dread filled you, speeding up your breathing. Your heart began to race wildly in your chest. Your dignity. No, you couldn't allow it. Die with dignity. It was all you had.

Your ruthless and lustful attacker, however, unceremoniously interrupted your flow of thoughts and guilt, positioning himself more comfortably and falling down on you: he balanced his weight on his forearms and brought his face so close to yours, that the tip of his nose touched yours. The scent of latex filled your nostrils, while his eyes, behind those dark holes, buried into yours. He slowly started to rub his hot cock against your pussy, dangerously tickling your clit and giving you another taste of his size. The twitching of his muscles, the jerks of your breathing, as he was getting harder and harder on you.  
This time it was different. There was nothing brutal or animalistic about it. This time he was more intimate and deliberate, he wanted something else, something more.  
He knew you were hiding something like a female secret and that was unacceptable to him. You weren't allowed to escape his control. He knew he could get more out of you and had every intention of discovering your secret. His inexperience would have slowed him down, but oh: he was a keen observer! It was just a matter of time. Time and dedication.

Lucky for him, his previous assault had already stimulated your private parts and, to your indescribable horror, you immediately realized how his rubbing cock and balls against your clit were gradually reviving the arousal that you had previously struggled to tame.

He paused only for a few moments, the time to bring a hand to your hole and put two of his thick fingers inside. And carefully he began to explore your depths. The obsessive search for that sweet spot that had made you clench so pleasantly around him. You were panting, your body was now too willing to accept his unwanted attentions, your mind in conflict with your body, your feelings in pieces. The fingers anchored on the outside of your pussy pressed, giving iron support to the fingers exploring your inside, while his palm was unknowingly patting your clit. New fluids moistened his hand, your panting betrayed your growing excitement, the eyes behind that damn mask sank into yours, while his hot breath puffed on your face.  
Your walls clenched on his fingers, letting a moan escaping from your lips: you regretted it, while he suddenly paused. Taking note of it.  
Your eyes flinched and, even if you couldn't really see it, your guts told you that behind his silent, expressionless mask, that man was odiously smirking.

Pure liquid anger seemed to flow through your veins, but you were forced to suppress any form of rebellion, as you could never win against this huge, terrifying man who had so stubbornly decided to own you. Man who was preparing to put the final nail in your coffin.  
Slowly, in fact, he pulled his fingers out and grabbed his hard cock, so to align it against your overused hole. He balanced again his weight on both forearms, without ever taking his eyes off your face and, after a few taps with his fat tip, he penetrated you in one fluid, smooth motion. You sucked in air, while he exhaled deeply on your face and rolled his hips inside you, his cock completely plunging in your body. Gently. Slowly. There was something different in this new angle: his tip kissed your depths, his width completely filled you and his hairy crotch was tickling your clit every time he rocked back and forth, back and forth. His pace was sweetly slow and steady; each time, he deeply dove into you and then slowly dragged his lenght out, wallowing in your soft moans, just to plunge into you again with deep and sweet rotations; certainly, he was enjoying this new brand of torture. Your mind barely stayed focused, but then, as he swung and rubbed that sweet spot he had been obstinately looking for, you shuddered with the electric jolt that crossed your body and your eyes rolled back for a moment. This naturally spurred him on, without, however, staying immune to the effects of your juicy arousal. You could feel his fight to keep his self-control, to keep concentration in using his twitching, hungry cock like a deadly weapon to satisfy his cravings for your clenches.

His rocking hips kept fueling the flame inside you, the pressure was building up stronger and you knew that soon he would have broken through your resistance: you were so dangerously close to snap. You disgusted yourself as you were resigned to the idea that your body needed to release its tension on this man, so stubbornly determined to make you cum on him.  
He kept hitting the spot again and again, his cock pressed and rubbed on it with more and more intensity, breaching your body bit by bit, the fire in your dephts growing and spreading, each push put you closer to your peak. "Please, stop, I can't--" You couldn't even finish your desperate plea, as you suddenly felt him harshly pushing into you: his smug answer to silent your begging supplication. You gasped and howled, feeling completely stuffed and stunned, while his face came closer to yours and his lips released a long, dark moan on your cheek, as he thrust into you stronger and deeper, squeezing and tormenting your body. You felt his aroused smirk in your guts, as he was taking full control over you. The tight knot in your core was hurriedly getting bigger and so ready to snap. He moaned on you while stroking your jawline with his masked lips, you felt his desperate need to touch you and kiss you and cum into you delayed by your obstinate and futile resistance. His unwavering thrusts, the pit in your stomach, everything was just too much. With each push, you felt him crack you open from inside, his cock like a growing, gigantic mass squeezing every drop of blind pleasure from your body and you could only wrap around it and ride it. And finally, with another rocking thrust, he made your spring snap.

For the first time, you followed his movements, grinding against him in need. You rolled your hips and started rubbing against him, while he kept hitting your sweet spots and softly moaning on your face. His cock kissed and stuffed your depths, sending shivers through all your body and fueling your increasing pleasure. As he kept thrusting and abusing you, you felt that pressure engulf you and your walls hurriedly envelop his cock, pulling you to the edge and ready for your free fall. Your hands clung to his broad back, your nails digging into the fabric of his black shirt, the feeling of his muscles tensing under your touch drove you mad. He was so hot, he was like fire. Each powerful contraction of his strong muscles made the pit in your stomach impossible to bear. Before you knew it, you were desperately pulling him closer to you. You hated this. You hated him because he forced you to do things you didn't want to do. Pure liquid anger. He was pleasantly surprised by your unexpected change in behavior and you heard him faintly chuckle to the realization of what was going to happen. Another wave of excitement crossed him, his cock twisted back inside you and his pace increased. It was bloody perfect. You shuddered, as you kept riding his massive, ruthless cock. You wanted to curse him, but you didn't know his name, who he was. You didn't even know his face. Just a goddamn latex mask.

He kept thrusting mercilessly, each deep push crashed his cock right there, again and again, the feeling of fullness making you dizzy with pleasure. It was so brutally good. Your eyes swung back again as your soaked pussy, so enveloped around him, seemed to want to suck him even deeper. With each push and thrust, his fierce assault left your panting breathing follow his pattern. The pressure kept growing and overwhelming you and your legs hooked around his torso with desperate desire. You just needed his touch. As if he read your mind, he buried his face into the side of your head, stroking it against your neck, the warmth of his mouth through his mask made you shiver, his groans of pleasure were muffled by your skin and it all felt so wrongly intimate to you. His hand cupped your face, his thumb stroked briefly your parted lips and then the hand slid to your chest, groping your breast, making you shake and moan with cursed pleasure. As your boiling depths tightened again around his cock, you felt him deeply breathing in your scent: that's all it took. You snapped, losing every connection to reality. To hell with it. The ecstasy of your senses electrified through your body and your own mind got lost, completely blind with pleasure. Your hips followed his in a lustful frenzy and you let your heat flare up in your depths as you let the man dominate you entirely. His fat cock kept attacking and stuffing you with deep, steady thrusts, making you see stars, and finally your walls were free to greedily clench around him frantically. You felt your whole body tighten around him, those insane, endless moments of pure passion seemed to reverberate through all your existence. He was your whole world, he was your everything. You couldn't hold back your moans as your eyes disappeared into the back of your head, blackening your vision. Your spasmodic convulsions around his marvelous, massive cock let you wildly ride the wave of your cursed pleasure, as you felt ripped by the pure, unstoppable force of your electrifying, intense orgasm throughout your whole body. He was totally stunned as he howled on your face at the heavenly sensations that your body kept giving him. Your legs were rattling under that shocking wave of enjoyment that seemed to never end, your body had convulsions, you clung desperately to that behemoth of a man as your nails wore out his shirt.

It was too much for him too.

The unexpected, overwhelming power of your orgasm made him lose all kinds of control, bringing him back to the sole need of reaching immediately his own end.  
He kept fucking you through your orgasm and, as you started drifting into your last glow, his rhythm had already doubled and your powerless body jumped under his violent thrusts. The bed creaked and you felt like you were sinking into the mattress. In the blissful daze of your senses, you dropped your arms and closed your eyes. He grunted and howled on your face. With each ram into you, your wide open legs dangled limp at his sides, the first whimpers caused by overstimulation escaping from your mouth. He collapsed on you and hurriedly crawled his arms under you, wrapping you in a steel vice that pressed you completely against him, your face straight into his chest. Squeezed in his hot, oppressive embrace, his scent, strong and masculine, filled your nostrils. It was intoxicating. He clung to your body to push you more and more harshly against his hips that ground against yours again and again with reinvigorated rush. You felt like you were split in two, your walls so raw. You bit your lower lip, begging him in your mind to end it soon. With each push, his pace increased, his grip intensified, dark guttural grunts vibrated in your face, while he kept a cheek pressed on your head. You almost couldn't breathe anymore. At this rate, he would choke you before he even reached his second orgasm. But then, finally, his thrusts got more uneven. His arms tightened even more around your powerless body and, with one last, mighty push, he stiffened, totally plunged into you. Finally, trembling and with an almost painful groan, he released a second load of hot cum that seemed to pour straight into your womb.  
Your eyes barely reopened just for a few moments, while the man panted and loosened his grip, and then you closed them again. Your body totally limp. Your mind completely lost.  
This time it seemed he didn't want to recover. Still panting, in fact, he freed you from his grip and rose on you, placing a hand on your inner thigh. Your dull gaze met the inky black eyes of his mask; then he looked down at his cock still inside you. His fingers were kneading your soft flesh. Maybe your death would have come without you even noticing. You still held hope. A half smile painted on your face at this thought, you felt so bad and sorry for yourself. And then, you closed your eyes again.

Eyes that shoot open in pure terror when his hand rushed to your neck, squeezing it violently. Your breath remained choked in your throat, you started squirming, trying to wiggle free. Your hands clinging to his wrist, the desperate struggle to free yourself from that steel grip that didn't even waver. His fingers tightened even more on your veins, the pressure felt like you might explode, one of your hands flew feebly to the damn mask staring at you, only fingertips touching it. The man didn't even move away his head, holding you by the neck with one hand, while the other still pressed on your thigh.  
Your vision began to blur, your chocked sounds became weaker and weaker, the buzzing in your ears was all you could hear. You were dying. The image of your boyfriend going crazy with grief once he knew about you, raped and killed in your own bed by someone who could be a boogeyman. Your name on the news. The most recent name of many, too many to add to the distressing list of people who died, whose culprit remains unidentified. Then you remembered the smile of your boyfriend. Your laughs, your days together.  
New tears moistened your eyes. Your last cry. Your limbs began to stop working. Your mind was zoning out. You were breaking out of your body.

And his grip loosened.

Too broken to completely re-enter your body, a weak breath was all you felt and your eyes barely opened. Just few seconds. Everything was slowed down, floating. You caught a partial glance of your Boogeyman on you. His hands pulling on the edges of his mask. Your eyes closed. Another weak breath of yours. The darkness partially faded as you weakly reopened your eyes. His hair was leaving touches of feather on your neck and cheek, while his mask was held tight in his hand in front of you. Your vision blackened again. You felt something wet dragging from your collarbone along your neck, licking you eagerly. You tried to open your eyes, without success, and you felt the oblivion enfolding your last glimmer of conscience. The earlobe of your ear was nibbled and you winced weakly. A human mouth kissed your neck just below the ear, sucked blood towards the surface of your skin. Another stronger bite followed on your neck this time, but you felt nothing. Only hot breaths. And then, the oblivion swallowed you.

-

The first thing your eyes saw once reopened was an unfamiliar ceiling. A sense of disorientation stunned you in your confused awakening. This wasn't the afterlife, was it? The parched throat and the throbbing, dull pain in your neck, however, reminded you that you were still alive. Then you also remembered the cause of that pain and a shiver ran down your spine. You snapped into a sitting position on what you now noticed to be an old bed, involuntarily shaking something metallic next to you. You looked at it and you felt horrified as you realized that you had a chained wrist: a kind of handcuff to which a long chain was attached wrapped flat on the floor; its other end was fixed to a sturdy pipe on the wall at the head of the bed.

The shock of realization chilled you to the bone. This would never end, wouldn't it?

Your breathing accelerated, panic dried your mouth, but you still tried to swallow. You inhaled deeply and hold it. You tried to exhale slowly. You tried to calm down, to think. You had to stay calm. Your hands tightened the fabric of your shirt. You looked down at your body: your shirt was all you wore. A grimace of disgust was painted on your face at the idea of your private parts sitting naked on those old sheets. But the awareness of being in a much bigger trouble turned the disgust on your face into silent horror. You breathed deeply once more and slowly started looking around.

You were in a bedroom with a bathroom, in some old decrepit house. There wasn't much furniture, essential and old stuff. It was difficult to see the details because it was quite dark, and instinctively you looked for the windows. Another shiver ran down your spine. Yes, there was a window in the distance, but it was barred. Prisoner. The ringing in your ears was all you heard in the stillness of your umpteenth shock. You blinked and returned to reality. You got off the bed and only then you hissed because of the pain of your abused cervix: it was difficult to keep your legs close together. The fruit of his assault. You whimpered slightly, but started walking on unsteady legs to explore that room. That prison.

As you thought, the chain was long enough to reach almost every corner of the room, but not long enough to get you past the window. You continued your exploration. There was a kind of old mat on the floor, the kind used for gymnastics. Like the one you used in your home training routine. On a small dresser there were some scattered clothes. You looked at them more closely and stopped. They weren't just clothes. They were your clothes. Your favorite shirt. Some tops that you thought had blown away with the wind during your laundry. Even the elastic you always used to tie your hair before going to sleep. It was tied around a small lock of hair, bagged. You didn't need any proof to know that that lock once belonged to you.  
Your eyes moistened and you felt a bitter knot in your throat. You swallowed nothing and clenched your teeth. Then you moved your gaze to the corner of the room, where you could see a small, essential bathroom. Little bottles resting on the edge of a tub. That's where more than half of your favorite bubble bath had gone. You weren't going crazy. It wasn't stress. This man... But how long had he been stalking you? There were things in that room that you had even forgotten you had lost! He had been spying on you for months, he knew every single habit, every detail of your daily routine. He must have stepped up his stalking since you were alone. Your neighbors' dog was warning you. All the pieces fell into place. He must have had a lot of fun making you think you were going crazy. You had been like a puppet in his hands, and now he had taken you to his doll's house to keep playing with you. Tears watered your vision again. You closed your eyes and tears ran hot down your cheeks. Then you opened them again and you turned to a small desk, on which lit candles and scattered papers rested. They looked like old newspapers. You came closer carefully.

The hint that you would find answers.

Your hands rested gently on the edge of the desk and you slightly leaned forward to look better. The door behind you, opening, creaked weakly. The newspapers were about old crime stories, the huge headlines all introduced the same scary news.  
The door closed creaking behind the person who had just entered, his breathing was the only sound in the room. Outside, thunders echoed in the distance, while the wind was howling through old shutters, somewhere in the house. A storm was coming. Your damp eyes, impatient, anxious, read the scattered titles, unable to follow a precise order. They were talking about a Halloween massacre. Footsteps. Several people were killed by a masked murderer. Your heart started racing. The storm rumbled outside. The flashes from the lightning barely entered the barred window. You greedily sought details. He wore a white latex mask. The footsteps slowly approached. The killer had killed his sister when he was only 6 years old and had been locked up in an asylum for 15 others. He escaped-- Halloween-- Kitchen knife-- No record of raped victims. Maybe you had really been his first time. But who was he? The footsteps stopped right behind you. You swallowed nothing. Your lips trembled. The muffled sound of shutters flapping in the stormy wind. His calm breath behind you. Then his hands rested on your shoulders and slowly moved your messy hair to one side, revealing his bite marks and hickeys on your neck. He caressed them as you gave a last, expectant glance between the black lines of ink.

And then, a name. His name. There he is.

Was this his way of introducing himself? He must have enjoyed seeing you shiver with dread at the realization of your current situation. What could he have seen in you? Why you?

His hot hands traced your body, going down to your waist and stopped on your hips. Then they shifted forward, placing one on your abdomen, one on your crotch. His fingers so long that already touched you even lower. His wide chest against your head. His heartbeat resounding straight in your skull. Your eyes traced again the black printed letters that formed his name:

Michael Myers.

At least now, you had a name to curse.


	2. Personal Belongings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again and welcome to the sequel to my little fanfic! Many thanks to those who wanted to spend part of their time for the first chapter, leaving kudos and comments: I'm very happy to receive feedback and I feel honored to have been able to offer you something good, so thank you very much! ^^ But now, without further ado, here's the second chapter! I really hope you like it! :D

Several weeks had passed since the first time you woke up in the dim light of your new, hated bedroom. Of your prison. At every waking, you were always on that damned bed. It doesn't matter how much you persisted in curling up in any other corner of the room, even falling asleep on the floor: he tirelessly laid you back on that damn bed. And at every waking you had that nauseous lump in your stomach: your heart seemed to sink every time you realized where you were, your mind going crazy with the burning awareness that the nightmare you were forced to live in - to survive in - was real.

During the first few days, your predominant feeling had always been fear. Not that you didn't feel scared now, of course, but compared to before, the current feeling was slightly different, more complex. At first, in fact, the terrifying uncertainty of what could happen to you consumed you; you still remembered how you eavesdropped on any sound, any hint that could reveal the presence of someone else inside that decrepit house. But, apart from you with the tinkling of the damned chain around your wrist and him, that silent and ruthless monster, there was no one else: the only answer the house gave you was a distressing, oppressive silence.  
You were alone. Alone with your captor, with this Michael Myers.

You kept count of the days, and the more the number grew, the more the idea of being victim of some dark cult or criminal organization faded into improbability. Your presence there had purely personal reasons. You knew all too well what use Michael made of you and as time went by, even your last doubt vanished. In fact, if you initially thought that Michael sooner or later would get tired of you and kill you, so he could go hunting for fresh meat to replace you with, now you thought differently. He had given you a room in his house, he had filled it first with all your personal belongings he had managed to collect and then with you, the last, coveted trophy. He let you read journal articles and medical files about him, he wanted you to know him. He had chosen you. Of all the bodies whose life he would have taken, the murderer had decided to make you his only exception. What exactly made him so obsessed with you, you didn't know and, at that point, you had stopped wondering. He would never get tired of you, he would never replace you. It would never end.

Your protests were of little use. You remembered well how, during the first days, every time he walked through the door of your room, you turned into a fury, so similar to a wild animal that, being cornered, fought for not being mauled. Too bad it was all useless, since that behemoth of a man could tame you without any difficulty. And every time he approached you to touch and violate you, there was no point in resisting him, begging him or, worse, insulting him: a single hand tightened around your neck was enough to silence you and dissuade you from rebelling. He choked your insults until you had surrendered: you were allowed to beg him, but not to insult him. You had to learn to behave, to obey him.

And in fact, it didn't take you long to stop antagonizing him. You still remembered vividly that time he entered your room completely covered in blood. The horror in front of that manifestation of death made your blood run cold and the pungent smell of the blood of some poor unfortunates filled your nostrils, making you feel sick as Michael came closer. His heavy breathing was unmistakable but at that moment you couldn't divert attention from the red flickering twinkle and from the undefined jelly-like masses stuck on his mechanic overalls. Your terror in front of what he was capable of. In front of his unstoppable cruelty.  
For the first time, you begged him for a different reason: you didn't want to keep him from having his way with you, also because, in any case, you wouldn't have had any chance to convince him; getting down on your knees, terrified and nauseated, you only begged him not to do it with all that blood on him.

Michael, from how he stopped and tilted his head, seemed struck by your unexpectedly new plea and, despite his obvious urge, for the first time he seemed to consider your plea.  
He grabbed your chain and, using it as a leash so that you followed him, he went to the shower, turned on the tap and let the water flow from the showerhead on top; Michael, turning to look at you, positioned himself exactly under the jet of water and remained motionless, the first clouds of steam rose in the air, along with the iron smell of blood. The water completely wet his clothes and ran from his shoulders along his whole body, pouring into red rivers on the shower tray. The way his wet overalls stuck on his figure made his erection even more visible and his heavy breathing sounded louder than the rush of water and the whacks of the organic residues left on him. Before your disoriented eyes, Michael suddenly yanked you by the chain, making you lose balance and land in his arms. Your face crashed into his chest, tinging with the faded shades of blood still on his clothes, the water that was pouring down drenched you completely. His hands came down from your back onto your hips, pressing them against his, and he began to rub against you. Then he turned you around, bending you against the tiles, and took off the underwear you found in his collection of your clothes and that, for some reason, you still insisted on wearing; he kept you bent forward and he tugged his zip down. Your body was almost completely wet, except for other areas of his interest, therefore he unceremoniously started to touch you, confidently teasing your clitoris and, shortly afterwards, he slipped two fingers into your pussy, stretching you open with ease; when he wasn't in a hurry to use you so as to feed his needs as soon as possible, Michael had always taken his time with you, studying your body, savoring your reactions, learning what worked out and what didn't, and by now you had no more secrets to him: it didn't matter how long the session was supposed to last just to have your orgasm: every time you came, he seemed to become more and more powerful, while you felt yourself sinking into an ever deeper abyss.  
He hold you steady by your hips and adjusted himself behind you and, as he prepared to penetrate you by tapping your entrance with his fat tip, you closed your eyes and, lowering your head down, the last thing you thought about was wishing that Michael wanted just a quickie.

The days turned into weeks and at some point you ended up losing count: each day was the same as the other; sometimes, when the sky was particularly leaden and the low light couldn't filter through the boarded up window, it was impossible to distinguish even the alternation between day and night. Distress and despair got the better of you, and soon frustration also joined in. On several occasions you tried to reason with him. But Michael said nothing, Michael did nothing, so all you could do was to beg him. Your pleas were so desperate, so sincere, yet nothing seemed to reach him; and thus, your pleas became more and more feeble, until they became simple, weak moans.

As if this hadn't been enough, there was also more.

Michael regularly abused you, he didn't care to trample on your feelings, your dignity, your person, and yet concerning other aspects he took care of you. Of course, in his deviant and perverse way, but he seemed driven by honest intentions, and this was, for you, the worst mockery. Michael, in fact, seemed to care about keeping you healthy. For example, he came back to you regularly with your meal. You had already wondered how he managed to get his essentials, until you noticed dried splashes of blood on the label of the honey jar he often brought you, and so you stopped questioning about how the food arrived in that house. From the first days, when he entered the room and found you all curled up in some corner, he patiently picked you up and, with or without your cooperation, he forced you to eat, drink, sometimes even wash. To add insult to injury: obviously, of all the obscenities he was the incarnation of, "necrophile" wasn't on the list. There was no way to oppose his insistence and therefore, at least on this aspect, over time you became a little more collaborative.

-

Several weeks had passed since the first time you woke up in the dim light of your new, hated bedroom. Of your prison. And, although you continued to curl up in any corner away from that bed and that nauseating feeling continued to grip your stomach, at least your wrist was no longer handcuffed.  
Yeah.  
As soon as you stopped insulting him and resisting too much his unwanted attentions, Michael had made a habit of unclipping your handcuff quite frequently but specifically, whenever he was going to sleep with you. Almost every night, in fact, the only chain you had were his arms tightened around you, as he held you close and, breathing in the scent of your hair, he fell asleep. His body resting against yours, his quiet breathing and his overconfidence made you deeply uncomfortable, but you felt more and more unable to react to that distress, so that you remained motionless in his grip, staring off into space, until a deep sleep got the better of you. You lost consciousness in a dark, dreamless sleep and, with each awakening, he was already gone: you were alone, locked in your room and with only your sneaking, slow despair to keep you company.

And then one night, that night, you just woke up. The first thing your eyes saw was his chest in front of your face, his arms were still around you, but they weren't as tight as usual. He was sleeping while you were awake. While you were awake. For the first time in what felt like ages, his arms weren't forcing you and he wasn't alert, and that simple fact seemed to emit a strange buzz in your head, in your mind a blurry plan began to form.

With extreme caution, you stretched your neck to look over his shoulder and to the nightstand, your extremely slow and controlled movements didn't even want to graze Michael afraid of waking him up. Keeping your neck stretched, you managed to peek between his shoulder and neck: his knife was there and it seemed to really wink at you while returning your gaze. Holding your breath in your throat, your eyes darted on Michael's face, hidden behind his mask. He still seemed abandoned in sleep, still unconscious. Not in control, for once. There were many adjectives that you assigned him during your confinement, but "exposed" was certainly not one of them. How could he have been, after all... In his sleep, Michael's free arm had slipped around your waist, freeing one of your arms. When would you get another chance like this? A shiver ran down your spine and a growing turmoil was stirring in your guts; suddenly, your blood seemed to freeze in your veins, while your heart pumped wildly in the throes of an anxiety that you should have kept under control as soon as possible. You couldn't risk to wake him up, you had to stay calm.

Stiff and terrified, with your eyes wide open you stared at Michael, so calm and unaware in his momentary abandonment of sleep. So surreal. You didn't even dare to blink, afraid that Michael's momentary state of vulnerability would disappear just as quickly, and you kept telling yourself that the sound of your heartbeat couldn't really be as deafening as it seemed. You remembered to breathe again and you did it very slowly, so silent as to be almost inaudible even to yourself. Michael's broad chest kept rising and sinking gently. Then your gaze moved once more to the knife: its call was like a tempting, dangerous dark force, but also the only way to your freedom. Your eyes returned to Michael, still sleeping, still unaware. Still vulnerable. You closed your lips and swallowed behind clenched teeth. Without ever taking your eyes off the emotionless mask, you slowly started to lift your free arm. The rest of your body stiff as if it were made of stone. A quick glance at the knife, then back to Michael again. His mask seemed to stare at you, giving you one last, silent warning, before you could really do something that you would inevitably regret. And for a split second you feared that he was really awake, watching you in your evil intent, but his calm and deep breathing and the dead weight of his arm around your waist confirmed you that he was still peacefully sleeping. You blinked again and took courage. Your gaze returned to his knife and your arm began to stretch beyond Michael's body; very slowly, your arm started getting close to his knife, while anxiety and fear pooled in your stomach in swirling turmoils. You already felt your shoulder burning, as if your arm had become ten times heavier, and you swallowed again; your eyes were full of the most desperate determination in the world. Another look at Michael, your senses alert, the flames in your shoulder began to flare up towards your outstretched arm, now even closer to his knife, the turmoil stirring in your guts and your heart beating madly. Your hand was almost hovering on the handle of the knife, but you flinched realizing that you needed to lean a little to be able to grab it, pressing against Michael's body. You didn't want to risk so much, you would have woken him up, you were sure. It was already enough that your deafening heartbeat had not done it yet, how could you risk more than that?

Your gaze flew to his knife, then landed again on Michael. A grimace was drawn on your face as you tried to lift and stretch your shoulder as much as you could, just to take advantage of a few inches without having to lean on Michael, but it wasn't enough: you could barely touch the handle with the tip of your middle finger. You were so dangerously close to him, yet it wasn't enough. What if he woke up? What would you do? What would HE do! He would have understood your intentions immediately, no doubt. Another shiver ran through your spine, you didn't want to even try to imagine the consequences. The terror of failing began to meander more vehemently within you, but you couldn't give up, you couldn't give up now, right now that you were so close to your freedom. It was your only chance. You parted your lips just to inhale more and, holding your breath, you slightly moved your body forward, Michael's heat already against your skin. You were almost there, one last effort and you could grab that damned handle. But you needed to get a little closer, just a little more. Your arm was completely burning and freezing at the same time, your neck, due to its prolonged and uncomfortable stretch, was radiating pain at the base of your skull, your heartbeat deafened your ears, while your gaze was bouncing with frantic anxiety from the knife to Michael and from Michael to the knife, over and over again. You bit your lip and hoped with all your heart that he wouldn't wake up as you crawled towards him and already softly pressed against his body. You brought your chest close to his, pressing harder. Your beating heart resounded in his, so slow and peaceful. So unaware. Then, Michael slightly moved his head and in an instant a silent panic flared up inside you, but meanwhile your hand was finally on the handle of his weapon. Trying to keep quiet and with the most delicate movements you could, your fingers finally wrapped around the handle of the knife and you started to bring back your arm. Something in Michael's breathing changed and his arm on your waist slipped slightly. Your heart seemed to sink into your chest and you paused, despite the adrenaline rushing through your whole body. Without ever taking your petrified gaze away from his face, you dragged your arm next to you and, squeezing the handle with all your strength, you aligned the sharp tip of the knife against his chest. For a moment, Michael breathed loudly and his arm encircled your waist again: it was now or never.

With a rush of adrenaline and desperation, you thrust the whole blade into his chest, its sharp edges tearing smoothly his flesh as you penetrated him. Michael jerked violently, a fierce grunt reverberated from behind his mask. He tried to lean over you as his arm resting on your waist searched for your armed hand. And you, shouting in a voice that had nothing familiar or human at your own ears, pushed more with your whole body to shove the blade even deeper, twisting it inside his body, until the tip got stuck somewhere between his bones; his blood, warm and velvety, gushed in abundant spurts from his wound and, filtering through the fabric of his shirt, was already flowing along your hand and wrist. Michael, portrait of pure fury, grunted threateningly against you but his body was blocked due to the unexpected spasms that you were inflicting on him. He only managed to hold your armed hand in his for a few, dreadful seconds, but your grip didn't waver; then, with a final gasp, he keeled over the bed, his imposing and feared figure suddenly collapsed and still under your astonished and devastated gaze. In the sudden, solemn silence that descended into the room, your first, weak moans seemed to pierce that heavy and muffled atmosphere with alienating force. From your quivering lips, the moans began to come out louder, turning into convulsive sobs. And finally, the totality of your crying. Desperate, overwhelming.

Liberating.

In the violence of your crying, your eyes never left the black holes of the white mask that had so harshly tormented you. You didn't even want to discover the face behind that mask, to find out how Michael really looked because, for you, Michael was what you had seen and kept seeing. He was what had entered you in a thousand horrendous ways. You had no need to discover a real and human face because what you had seen and experienced was already too real and not at all human. Your crying suddenly stopped and you blinked, as if you had just awakened; your gaze peeled off from Michael's masked face to look at your hand, still tight around the handle of his knife. Completely covered with blood. With indescribable horror you let go and leapt back to get away from the gruesome result of your work. You had just killed a man. A man who had had very little humanity to you, a man who had killed and continued to kill ruthlessly, a man who seemed to have been born evil and who, day by day, had ripped away pieces of you, trapping, abusing, subjugating you and ruining your life as you never imagined only to be able to satisfy his depraved desire, recreating a faded and sick copy of some strange form of twisted and deviated love. A man who, however monstrous and inhuman, to you, now, in the suspended immobility of his death, was still a man.

Emotions with no name hovered in and out of you. Did what you have just done make you look like him? Were you a murderer now? Were you also a monster now? Something gripped your stomach and you seemed about to vomit. You pressed a hand over your mouth and looked back at the massacre before your eyes.  
And so, your crying, so visceral and primordial, flowed free and with no chains, as strong as a hurricane, it screamed the sufferings that you had to endure all this time, starting from that damned night, in what should have remained a comfortable room in your home, a safe haven, a place of serenity. But no, because he had crept silently first into your home and then, with perverse arrogance, into your life, defiling your person and appropriating you in every way, from your body to your mind, and he would have continued to do so, as long as you would have emptied yourself of your essence, completely transformed into his unique and personal toy, his and his alone.

But now it was all over.

He was still there, motionless and lifeless before your eyes, so full of hot tears that didn't stop flowing down your cheeks. You partially returned to sanity and, without ever taking your eyes off him, you got off that hated bed and, trembling and still in shock, you walked backwards towards the door. For some reason, you couldn't take your eyes off Michael's body, the irrational fear that he might wake up, grab you with his superhuman strength and do all those things-- You shook your head and, clenching your teeth, you pulled away the painful images that your mind was already projecting before your eyes. As soon as your back hit the flat surface of the door, your blood-soaked hand groped for the doorknob. Because of your obvious state of shock and blood, your grip slipped a few times, but then, pushing with the rest of your body, you opened the door and for the first time you were out of that hated room, theater of horrors and abuses that you still had no idea how you would have coped with once out of there. Yeah... But this wasn't the time to think about it, because you actually had to get out of that house first.

House that, for the first time, presented itself to you in its entirety. There were other rooms abandoned to themselves, but you couldn't care less, as your eyes had just seen the railing of the stairs leading to the lower floor and, therefore, to the door that would have given you back your freedom. In a hurry, you rushed to the handrail and went down the short flight of stairs that led to a small lobby with two large rooms on both sides. And, in the middle, the coveted door. Still shaking but with renewed energy, you threw yourself against the handle and tried to open the door. Locked. You yanked it harder again, maybe it was stuck, but the door didn't open. Anger began to grow inside you at the speed of light, you no longer had the strength to resist in that hellish place, every moment in there was just always heavier and unbearable. The door was locked and there was no key. It was stuck and didn't seem to unlock even under your furious tugs. With your tensed up hands still on the doorknob, you looked at the windows nearby one by one, but they were all boarded up, not as much as the one in the room where you were imprisoned, but enough to not let you pass through. You needed a tool, something to pull the beams and detach them: you wouldn't have allowed these damned inches of construction to deny you your craved freedom. You had no idea where you were and from the little you had glimpsed between the beams there was vegetation around, but you didn't care. Whatever was waiting for you outside would certainly have been better than what you were going to leave behind in here. After a brief attempt to detach a beam with bare hands, with your fingers still wrapped around its wooden edge, you turned your head left and right to decide in which room to look for some useful tool and opted for the kitchen, where you already glimpsed some old cupboards.

But, as you started turning your head towards the kitchen, something stopped you instantly. A sound. Not just any sound, but THAT sound. The hair behind your neck stood up. It couldn't be real. But you knew that sound too well. You knew the sound of his breathing way too well. You would have recognized him among a thousand and you knew how much each time it had the power to freeze you in place. But now it couldn't be true, it wasn't happening. It wasn't happening. It was your mind, no doubt, you were imagining it, it couldn't be explained otherwise. He was dead in front of you, his blood still stained your skin.

So why couldn't you turn towards the direction of that breath?

You blinked and swallowed, but that bad feeling didn't go away. The breath, his breath, was still there, behind you and you didn't dare to turn your head more; even your gaze remained locked on those old cupboards in the kitchen and you avoided your peripheral vision from wandering, scared of peeking behind your shoulders, from where his breath kept echoing.  
You had stabbed him, no, you had completely skewered him with a kitchen knife, his damn huge kitchen knife, it also got stuck between his bones, in the depths of his chest; his blood had gushed and spilled over you, he was furious, but not even his fury had prevented him from collapsing, so how could he be behind you now? He was dead in front of you and the dead can't breathe on your neck!

With pure and irrational horror, you pushed your pupils towards the corners of your eyes, watching beyond your shoulder; your grip on the beams weakened and you slowly turned your head more, looking for what was hidden behind you. An endless instant, diluted in eternity by your mind that couldn't conceive an explanation for what was rationally impossible, but that your instinct had already accepted.  
And as in a nightmare becoming reality, under your gaze, his silhouette was taking shape, that one you had learned to recognize immediately even in the dark, the body of the man you had killed in cold blood just before, the monstrous being that should have been dead.  
Your eyes traveled along his body and towards his face, until they met the black abyss of the eye slits of his dreaded mask. Michael Myers towered menacingly behind you, imposing and frightening, his heavy breathing was like a diabolical and derisive laugh at you. Despair, unbelief and terror instantly drained you of all your strength and, just as your lips curled down and your eyes shone with new tears, painting you as the portrait of the complete defeat, Michael, fast and indomitable like lightning, grabbed you by the neck, lifting you in midair and slamming you violently against the nearby wall. The sudden, strong impact knocked the air from your chest, your vision briefly wobbled and, as you returned to yourself, Michael seemed to roar furiously in front of you; it was only after he raised his free arm that you realized he was wielding his bloody knife. Instinctively, you closed your eyes, preparing to be mangled by his murderous fury, but the feared weapon crashed into the wall above your head, repeatedly, with blind and devastating violence. Completely terrified by the blows that reverberated in the house, your hands clung to his wrist and you didn't dare to reopen your eyes during that display of uncontrollable anger. A final blow struck hard against the wall and Michael stood leaning against the knife stuck a few inches from your head. You opened your eyes completely full of tears and his face almost pressed on yours, enough for you to read all his fury in his eyes. There were no words to describe the flames in his inhuman gaze and with unthinkable dismay you realized that that intense, uncontrollable, demonic gaze had just pierced you to your very core. Whatever was about to happen, you knew deep down that his look will never ever abandon you, it will follow you everywhere and you could never get rid of it.

Michael pulled out his knife and, grunting, threw you harshly on the floor. The strong impact blocked the air in your lungs and you could already feel the points on your body where new bruises would soon form. Even if still stunned, you tried to get back on your feet to flee away from Michael, who was already getting closer in few steps. Trembling and coughing, you trudged towards the counters in the kitchen and tried to get up, but Michael grabbed you by the ankle and, pulling, made you slide and bump badly against an edge. You barely screamed in pain as you could no longer try to get up, because Michael was now pressing one foot in the middle of your back, pinning you firmly on the floor. In the midst of your total panic, however, you noticed how your face, streaked with your warm tears, was tickled by something that gently touched your skin. A stream of cold air dried your tears and, blowing, moved what you now understood to be the leaves of a plant: its branches had managed to sneak into the house through a small old and rusty ventilation grid. It was rather ironic to see in that dramatic moment that, in that house, the only unblocked opening you had found was large enough for just one arm of yours to pass through. The cold wind on your face, the delicate caresses of that lush plant and that unattended and harmless opening seemed like a sadistic and mocking laugh towards your horrendous captivity.

Michael meanwhile slid his bare foot under your stomach to turn over on your back and straddled you, pressing on your legs. You began to plead, trembling and crying desperately, but your every plea fell deaf to his ears: you had tried to get rid of him, you, his exclusive property, and now you had a lesson to learn. Yes, you would have definitely begged, and he surely liked your supplications, but at the moment there were other priorities. Now it was the time to punish you before the main feast, the inevitable, relentless display of his power that would serve as your lesson. You had crossed the line, your reckless and pathetic attempt to fight him had tickled his predatory instincts too much and this did nothing but fuel the flames inside him. Flames that were preparing to devour you mercilessly.

Using only his weight on your legs, Michael kept you firmly pressed to the floor, one hand tightly around your chin, the other on the dreaded knife. With a short, abrupt tug, Michael held your face in place: you had to watch. You had to watch him and stay still. You didn't dare to oppose that domineering command and strove to shush your moans and make your body stop shaking. How many times and in how many ways he had made your body tremble, and every time his excitement fed on it and grew. But now you couldn't even imagine his efforts to control himself, you didn't know how much he, despite his sadistic excitement, couldn't give in to the call of the furious lust that swirled in his stomach and that had already started to make the limits of his underwear tight.

When he was sure he had your full attention, Michael, breathing heavily and never taking his eyes off your face, let go of your chin, crossed his arms in front of him and grabbed the edges of his black t-shirt; with a fluid motion, he undressed and threw it aside, leaving on just his mechanic overalls, whose sleeves were still loosely tied around his hips. For the first time, his naked and muscular torso presented itself to you in its entirety, full of scars and stained with the flow of blood caused by your little stunt, now almost completely dry. The sight was disturbing to say the least, but you didn't look away for fear of infuriating him even more. His strong chest raised and sank rhythmically, faster, as his breathing quickened, every muscle was tense under your flickering gaze, the knife firmly held in his hand. Then Michael slightly leaned forward and his hand reached for yours, grabbed it strongly and forced you to touch his chest: despite your whining, he rubbed your hand exactly where you had stabbed him and the expression of further disbelief and horror that was drawn on your face was worth the keep of control of his most immediate impulses. Guided by his hand on yours, your mind went blank as you realized that, among the clumps of blood encrusted on his skin, there was no longer any trace of the gash you had caused him with his knife. Your lips parted in a silent cry and he took advantage of it to let go of your hand and wrapped his long fingers in your hair; he abruptly pulled you towards him, sitting you up and slamming your face on what remained of the wound you had inflicted on him. The unexpected gesture made you gasp, the painful impact made you shut your eyes and your open mouth pressed on his chest; his strong, masculine scent left space for the iron taste of his clotted blood. You moaned louder and he tugged at your head.  
Another order that you couldn't disobey.

As you were pressed to his chest, you couldn't help hearing his heart beat faster, mockingly reiterating how alive he was and how equally absurdly he too had a heart. New tears wet your eyes and his skin, while he wallowed in your new grimace of suffering and disbelieving terror; he huffed again as another twitch pushed from inside his boxer briefs. But meanwhile you, apart from whimpering, weren't doing yet what he wanted. Another jerk and you obeyed: with disgust and completely disheartened, your quivering lips kissed his bloodied skin. Michael grunted pleased, urging you to continue as your stomach turned; then you started to lick him and his body kept pushing towards you, craving for the sensations you were finally giving him, his muscles reacting to your every contact. The iron taste of blood disgusted you as much as the wrong intimacy of that gesture, some small blood clots that you were forced to swallow remained attached past your tonsils, making you gag. Michael tugged at you, pulling you by the hair and arching you backwards, and exposed your devastated face to his greedy gaze. He tilted his head and suddenly let go of you, making you slam again on the floor. He jumped to his feet, freeing your numb legs from his weight and leaned over you only to grab your t-shirt and throw you on his shoulder. With his big hand firmly pressed to your midsection, he started walking and you no longer tried to wiggle or beg him: you remained totally limp, your arms dangling behind his back, the floor flowing under your eyes while Michael brought you back upstairs.  
With each jolt caused by his steps, you found yourself increasingly absorbed in the thought of what you had just witnessed: the man you had killed not only was still alive, but it was as if he had never been injured. Was it still legit to call him "a man"? Was he really human? What inexplicable Force of Nature was hidden behind that expressionless mask? Was he really the Boogeyman? As Michael climbed the stairs, you sank lower and deeper, completely swallowed up in total and incredulous despair, mocked also by the death that among all of creatures had decided to spare him. You couldn't kill Michael Myers. You couldn't kill the Boogeyman.

The sudden noise of the door that Michael kicked open dragged you back to your painful reality. With a quick glance, you noticed that the room in which you had been imprisoned all this time was exactly next to the one you were entering: where was he taking you? And why not in your prison, on the bed where he always put you back? He slammed shut the door behind him and, after a few steps, he let you slide forward from his shoulder; you fell on something soft, a bed, and, before he could reach you again, you recoiled far from him. Michael straightened up, stretching his spine and becoming even more imposing than he already was; you went down the opposite side of the bed, the only barrier between you and him. Michael tilted his head slightly, while your eyes frantically tried to catch useful details of the new bedroom you were in, without losing sight of the real threat in front of you. The behemoth of a man, though, still holding his knife, blocked the only way out, while you were just his little prey, scared and cornered. This sort of hunting game, which was always driven by murderous intent with all his other victims, was different with you: it amused and excited him and let him foretaste the moment in which he would dine with you, again and again, reaching thus the apex of his enjoyment. What made it all even better and irresistible in his eyes was knowing that you knew what he was going to do with you and savouring your not knowing what would happen next.

You weren't sure how to behave, assuming you had some choice: reasoning with him seemed a lost fight, begging him seemed only to spur him on and challenging him would have made him even more violent. Also, you were at a loss. Your breathing quickened with fear, while his quickened with his arousal. The bulge in his pants was prominent, but his threatening pose, the knife, what you had done to him, left you trembling in the uncertainty of what to expect. Michael slowly started to walk around the bed and headed in your direction, while you backed away on the opposite side, skirting the wall and approaching the head of the bed. He came closer to you with measured steps and you, instead of climbing over the bed to escape, or at least try, remained pressed to the wall, trapped and squeezed in your shoulders, your pleading face was hiding behind your trembling hands in one last form of defense, your figure getting smaller and smaller in front of Michael's towering one. You had been so brave and insane before when you stabbed him in his sleep, and now? You were so small and defenseless. Pathetic. And in another circumstance, ready to be devoured, but not now. Not now. You had a lesson to learn. And taking you to what you now understood to be his room would have made the importance of this lesson even more symbolic and incisive. Subjugation. Obedience. You belonged to him. You were his and his alone and you had tried to oppose him.

Michael was looming over you now and only then you jumped towards the bed in a vain attempt to escape him. Too late, but it was also true that, even if you reacted earlier, you would still have failed: how could you escape? Everything was blocked or barred. Michael grabbed you instantly and slammed you against the wall, your chest hit it harshly, your face saved from the impact thanks to the reflex of your hands. Caged between the wall and his body pressing on your back, you didn't have much chance to move; then you winced when he strongly stuck the knife into the wall, dangerously close to your face. With both hands free, Michael began to roughly touch you, furious and aroused at the same time. Keeping you pinned against the wall with his chest, you felt him shove a leg between yours, while a hand slid between the wall and your face, until he grabbed your jaw and pulled you back, so that he could look at your face. His other hand was holding you by the waist, so as to press your hips against his pelvis already grounded in your ass. His bulge and the warmth of his groin were easy to feel through the barrier of his rough jumpsuit and your thin panties, every sensation was amplified by your fear and your lack of more clothes. You tried to pull your hips away from him, but his hand immediately brought you back against his crotch, his obvious, burning erection prodding the soft flesh of your butt. You groaned and he pushed more the knee between your legs, forcing you to open them, while he kept rubbing against you. The hand that held you by the hips slipped down, between your legs and moved the seat of your panties to the side, exposing your cunt: keeping the fragile fabric pushed behind his finger and your outer labia, he began to explore between your folds. Without any difficulty, his free fingers found your clit and started to massage it with circular and smooth movements, sometimes also pressing on your entrance. You would have hated how well he knew where and how to touch you to get the reactions he wanted, so easily visible on your suffering face still held in his grip, but the reality was that you no longer had the strength. There was no point in pressing your hand on his wrist and begging him in the vain attempt to stop, since Michael put you back in position, continuing incessantly to rub against your ass and to touch you until you get completely wet.

When you were completely drenched, Michael slipped two fingers inside you, curling them and teasing your hot and damp walls right behind your pubic bone, still tapping your clit with his palm; your every attempt to wiggle only increased the effects of his warm hand between your legs; he rolled his hips in yours and at the same time kept you pressed against him, his face locked on yours, his heavy breathing sped up but he was still in control, deliberate. It wasn't like the other times, there was something different: you had made a terrible mistake and it was obvious that besides his indomitable lust there was something else. Anger, resentment perhaps... Deciphering this man, this "creature", was impossible. All you understood was that this situation was different and you felt that he wasn't simply preparing to quench his thirst as he had always done; for the first time, you really felt him playing with you with the same sadism with which a cat plays with the newly caught mouse; but what scared you to death was having no idea what he would do after he finished toying with you. You didn't miss that he always kept the knife with him, both earlier, on the lower floor, and now, in his room, and this was the horrible detail that troubled and dreaded your mind.  
And as possible ideas showed before your eyes, Michael must have sensed that you were spacing out again, so he brought you back to reality. With him. You had to look at him, you had to be present. You had to be with him.

He rudely pulled his fingers out of your pussy and let go of your face only to turn your back on the wall. Having him so close to you, feeling his warmth and his predatory gaze on you, and that strong tension in the air: all sensations that stunned you and left you on unsteady legs; then he brought his face even closer to yours and slowly pulled the edge of his mask just enough to show his lips. What you experienced was an indescribable sense of disorientation and terror: for the first time you saw something that had always been hidden, something more than his eyes, as fearsome as cryptic. For some strange reason, you had never considered how the face hidden under that mask could look like and, after what you had witnessed, the idea that his face was even human seemed really improbable to you. Idea so different from that simple human mouth that, alone, was enough to confuse you even more and to make you look away, as if you were trepassing a limit that was forbidden to cross. For this reason, you immediately returned to look at his eyes with obedience and terror. Michael understood what had crossed your mind in those moments, you felt it: by now, you knew he could read you like a book.

Before your wide and terrified eyes, Michael showed you his fingers covered with your fluids and brought them to his mouth: a sticky strand was stretched between his middle and ring fingers and he divided it in two running his tongue in between; he continued to lick his fingers completely and then sucked them one by one, ending with a loud, satisfied pop. The slight grin that you glimpsed caused a suffocated sob of tears inside you and Michael, rearranging his mask, tilted his head and slowly reached for the knife still stuck in the wall, next to your head.  
You trembled and tried to move, but Michael's other hand pressed in the middle of your chest to keep you pinned against the wall, your heart beat wildly against his palm as the knife approached, his eyes always set on yours. Then his hand slowly traveled from your chest to your neck, wrapping his long, strong fingers around it. He squeezed just enough to hold you in place, so that you understood that you weren't allowed to move or look elsewhere; you stood still under his towering figure, while the pulsations of your blood beat rhythmically against his strong fingers and, as your throat briefly contracted in the effort to swallow, Michael placed the tip of his knife on your lips. He hadn't used it on you since that first, hated night and you tended to think that, although it turned him on, the only reason he had used it was to immediately establish rules, his rules, the ones you had just dared to break. Like that night, the knife dictated the rules. Unlike that night, however, the knife was pressing with its sharp side. The tip pressed on your clenched lips without cutting yet and you instinctively closed your eyes, causing abundant tears to fall down your cheeks. But Michael immediately responded to your gesture with a threatening grunt and you, so obedient, reopened your eyes, letting the tears water your vision before curling your eyelashes under their weight and fall down your cheeks without even the need to blink.

Pleased to have back your full attention, Michael, still immersed in your gaze, began to glide the cold tip of the blade, with the pungent smell of blood mixed with steel, from your soft lips to your chin, his pressure, meticulously controlled, didn't cut the flesh as it went, but left a slight scratch just below the curve of your chin. You barely gasped, while the blade jumped your neck, still wrapped in his unwavering hand, to place just below the jugular notch of your sternum. Michael pushed the tip more into the small depression, teasing the natural, elastic resistance of your skin, without however perforating you. You were by now a disaster, so different from Michael's lucid and controlled attitude: obviously he hadn't wanted to kill you in ferocity before; slowly torturing you, making you suffer until you have begged for death as the only form of liberation seemed much more fulfilling and seemed to match better with a sense of revenge against you, after you killed him in his sleep. If only you had known... But how could you have imagined all this?

Meanwhile, Michael got back to slowly drag his blade along your sternum, causing a reddened trail that followed the new flesh wound, and then stuck the blade in the loose collar of your t-shirt. Slightly pressing, he cut the fabric, then removed his hand from your neck to have a better grip on your shirt and he continued to tear it open. The blade glided, the sound of the ripping fabric as it passed while the sharp tip barely scratched your skin, they did nothing but torment your mind, imagining how he would soon slit you wide open and skin you alive. In the meantime, Michael never took his eyes away from the horror painted in your tearful eyes, still so delightfully open and set on his, and let the blade slide downwards, tearing your shirt and scratching your skin. Then he stopped it exactly at your stomach and left the tip just pressed into your flesh and against your tensed and trembling abs. You remained motionless for several, endless seconds, panting in terror of feeling stabbed at any moment, until finally he slowly moved his face away from yours and, above all, the knife from your body.

You almost fainted and Michael stood briefly contemplating you as the huge mess you were. You felt weakness in your legs, but you held on so as not to fall and pass out, in the blind terror that, in doing so, you could have angered him even more. Michael used the tip of the knife to separate the two cut edges of your shirt, torn to the height of your stomach, and he took a step back, bringing his armed hand to his side. And he stared at you. His heavy breathing was all you got. He was still motionless while you looked a bit confused: did he expect you to do something? Your look became more questioning. Then he slightly nodded. He seemed to point to your shirt and you, still hesitant, looked down at your chest, the tear revealed half of your naked torso. You looked at him again and this time he tilted his head and nodded to you, gesturing slightly with his knife. You blinked again and you seemed to understand what his new order was.  
With hesitant, shaking hands, you grabbed the two cut edges of the neck of your shirt and looked at him again: he, still motionless in front of you, stetched his posture while his breathing seemed to be heavier; then he softly gave you an affirmative nod and you slowly looked back at your hands on your cut up t-shirt.

Sure. You finally understood.

Why would he have to undress you, when you could do it "of your own free will"? He had never had troubles in handling you like a ragdoll to have fun with your body, no matter what you did. But now there was more. Now there was a lesson to be learned. As horrible as it was to suffer his perversions and abuses, now you understood that it would have been even worse for you to hand yourself over to him. Playing a more active role, so to speak. As if you really wanted to put on a show to entertain and seduce him, as if you really wanted to give yourself to him and satisfy his urges. You never wanted to undress in front of him and therefore this was exactly what he wanted now. He wanted to humiliate you. Humiliate and subjugate you.

And the worst part was that he was succeeding.

With painful resignation, you bowed your head, closed your eyes and started to push the two halves of your shirt towards your shoulders. But Michael suddenly interrupted you, quickly grabbing you by the chin so as to lift your head, making you open your eyes: you had to watch him while you were stripping. And he wanted to watch you.  
For a brief moment, you felt pure venom dripping from your whole self, but the dread and powerlessness stifled again your instincts of rebellion and your own self-respect. And you pushed what was left of your shirt past your shoulders; then, pulling down the sleeves, the fabric slipped much more easily, revealing your small breasts in front of his greedy gaze. Your innocence once again ready to be soiled by that monster who was breathing heavily in front of you, unmistakable.  
The shirt stopped on your hips and you, trying to keep your gaze on him, shrugged it off, until it fell at your feet, leaving you naked and with only your underwear on to shield you. Michael's breath echoed from behind his mask and, as soon as you instinctively arched your shoulders to cover yourself, he grunted annoyed and you repositioned your arms at your sides.

Every single body cell screamed the deep distress you were forced into and that Michael wouldn't be long in increasing. In fact, another nod dictated that it was the turn of your panties. You whimpered and tilted your head, but you only got silence; then you swallowed again and, going completely against your will, you hooked your thumbs beneath the hem of your panties. You sobbed, nausea stirred in your stomach at the thought of what you were going to do, and you felt even more disgusted by the fact that Michael was already rubbing idly his palm along the inseam of his coverall.  
You couldn't help closing your eyes as you pushed your panties down, revealing your hairy crotch and, slightly shimmying, you let them fall at your feet, together with your shirt.  
You opened your eyes again while your naked body was feeding Michael's lustful gaze. It was then that you thought that perhaps it was better he always wore that damned mask: it was like a barrier, whose aura of anonymity and mystery seemed to make this nightmare a little less real. Thinking that a human being could enjoy the sufferings of others to such an extent was a much more frightening reality and, in a certain way, in that moment, thinking that you were on a different level of humanity from his left you with a strange sense of poor consolation.

Michael, panting, kept contemplating the fruit of the show you had just offered him and shortly after stopped his palm. Then he slowly put the knife on the nightstand and came closer to you, an arm circled your waist and his fingers plunged into the soft flesh of your ass, groping and squeezing it. The other arm wrapped you from behind your shoulders, pushing you flush against his body. Then he tilted his head and, lowering it, he pressed his nose into the delicate skin of your bruised neck and inhaled deeply. The simple gesture that made you shiver for the wrong intimacy, while his excitement grew. He breathed for long the scent of your skin, while rubbing against you, the bulge in his pants was hot against your bare skin. He slowed down and slowly his head returned to look at your face from above; his hand, from behind your shoulders, travelled to your head; you felt him wrapping his fingers in your hair and then harshly pulled you back, exposing your bruised neck to his gaze. Your lips parted and he let go of your waist to grab your face: his thumb stroke your lips and entered your mouth, prodding at your tongue. After a while, he released your mouth and pushed you down by your shoulders: his strength and your back forced to stay bent backwards, caused you to lose balance, forcing you to kneel between him and the wall behind you. Michael, without ever removing his fingers from your hair, kept your head up, so that you, naked and kneeling at his feet, could return his gaze. He was even more imposing. He stood there only for a few seconds, but it seemed like an eternity to you. A horrible eternity. In fact, the bad feeling that gripped your stomach turned to be true when Michael's crotch came closer to your face, the bulge in his pants eager to be freed from its limits, his strong scent that already filled your nostrils.

..it was really happening, then.

Michael has so far used you in many ways, but never like this. And honestly, what was happening now was even worse. Making use of you as he liked was already horrible, but never as much as forcing you to want it. Making it so you stripped for him was only the beginning; now you had to invite him into you, make him feel desired. And it didn't matter that he was actually the one who forced you: the important thing was to subjugate you. Disintegrating your own self before killing you.  
Yes, you would have learned the lesson.  
You wanted to cry, scream, get mad, but you felt totally dried up. What have you done to deserve all this?  
A hiss was buzzing in your ears, but your empty eyes were forced to focus again on Michael as he, leaning slightly towards you, grabbed your hand and placed it on the tied sleeves of his jumpsuit.

Of course you had to be the one to undress him: after all, you wanted it, right?

You barely blinked, only a faint whimper escaped your parted lips. Then you looked down, to his knotted sleeves, Michael followed the movement of your head with his hand, his cock eager to be freed. You were no longer able to think, to understand.  
And you gave in.  
Your hands raised towards his sleeves and, as you were about to untie them, your gaze became empty again. When your eyes returned to focus, his sleeves were already dangling at his sides, the jolts of his breath betrayed his eagerness. A faint sob, and your hands grabbed his zipper. A slight tremor accompanied your hesitation and Michael, barely grunting, pushed forward, urging you to continue. You quickly breathed, your eyes returned to focus on him: his treasure trail swayed under your breath and you instinctively closed your mouth; another deep breath and you pulled the zip down; you let go and his jumpsuit, in a soft rustle, fell flat on the floor.  
Michael's scent was prominent, his boxer briefs were the last remaining barrier. You felt him massaging your scalp with mocking gentleness and you, feeling your face on fire, hooked your fingers beneath the elastic of his boxer briefs. Your gaze lowered and, while something inside you began to crumble, you pulled down his underwear.

His cock bounced out, finally free from his constraints, and crashed straight on your cheek, his skin plumped and velvety. It was the first time you saw it so well and, despite having had it inside you countless times, you couldn't avoid feeling scared in front of it: it was huge and it was getting harder as he gently kept rubbing it against your cheek; its heat, its throbbing tip and that strong scent mixed with testosterone gripped your stomach, so you closed your eyes. But Michael, with a slight tug, coaxed you to reopen them and you looked up at him. He seemed so expectant. His hair tickled your skin, while he still rubbed his cock against your face and his fingers continued to play with your hair.

Your gaze returned to his cock, his manhood erected in all its glory before you. Just for you.  
Another part inside you seemed to crumble as the first droplets of precum slipped out of his slit and, sliding down his lenght, moistened your cheek.  
Your throat tightened in bitterness and, feeling yourself sinking deeper and deeper into the abyss, you put your hands on his groin and aligned yourself with his dick. Michael gasped and seemed to hold back from shoving it into your mouth himself. With his turgid and fat tip that throbbed against your lips, you couldn't do anything but turn off your mind, breathe deeply and obey him; and, for the first time, he didn't force you to keep your eyes open.

Your lips completely wrapped his tip, your tongue slipped out, guiding his dive inside you, from its tip along its shaft, your every movement careful to not scratch it with your teeth. You put half of his dick into your mouth, your saliva coated it and slid along the rest of his shaft and towards his base. You started to move your head back and forth, sucking lightly, while Michael, moaning softly, stroked your hair and let you go at your own pace. You applied a little more pressure with your lips and cheeks, sucked again and then continued to lick it, your tongue pressed from time to time between the folds of his glans and on his slit: every twitch, every little moan revealed the pleasure you were causing him. Michael eagerly followed your movements with his hips, both of his hands now on the sides of your head were caressing you with disgusting affection. And you continued to lick and suck it, your every movement bringing him closer and closer to his climax.

And in fact, Michael began to push harder his hips against your face and you understood that he was enjoying your performance a little too much; therefore, fearing that he could fully push it in your throat, you tried to keep his cock inside your mouth only halfway, strategically grabbing the base with one hand and pumping it inside: it was too big and too long and you had no intention of choking on it.  
Holding it in your hands, having it in your mouth and knowing that it was you who established the extent of his pleasure were sensations that made you warm up and shiver at the same time, completely baffling you. And that brief moment in which your mind went blank because of your inner conflicts was enough to let your guard down: Michael, pulling your head against his rocking hips broke the barrier created by your hand, completely plunging into you. His tip touched your throat, causing it to bulge around it, your eyes widened and you gagged. But Michael, so lost in his pleasure, couldn't return the gaze of your pleading and watery eyes, his head was lazily tilted back. With your throat swelling around his dick, you beat your fists on his hips, desperately trying to get his attention, you tried to push away from him, but he still pulled your head against his body, until your face was one with his crotch and his cock deep in your throat.

Saliva poured abundantly from your mouth and along your chin, you were close to throw up and pass out, but your choking sounds snapped him back to reality; he looked at you and suddenly pulled out, leaving his hard and throbbing cock to dangle in front of you, who could finally gasp and breathe again. Holding your head firmly in his hands, Michael, still panting, stood staring at you as if he were in disbelief in front of what he had just experienced. Your strained face, your watery eyes and your lips, so soft and swollen, were still irresistibly parted before him.

Michael breathed loudly and seemed conflicted about what to do, but his hesitation lasted only a few moments.  
In fact, unceremoniously, he bent over you, grabbing you by the arms and abruptly urging you to get up on your wobbling legs. He swept away the clothes at your feet and, grabbing you firmly by the waist, he lifted you up in an instant as if you weighed nothing, making you lose balance and triggering the instinctive reaction of holding on to him so as not to fall backwards. Taking advantage of your hold around his neck, Michael let go of your waist and, pressing you against the wall, he passed his hands from under your thighs, lifting your legs and hooking them around his torso. You remained firmly clinging to him and his hands moved to your ass. In this new position his masked face was dangerously close to yours.  
For the first time, Michael was completely naked in front of you and this simple fact convinced you that everything that was happening concealed a sort of symbolic meaning, a lesson that you were already disliking. You could feel the warmth of his skin against your body and his mask was the only barrier left between your naked and entwined bodies. And once again, your heart squeezed painfully: it was all so wrong and yet you couldn't react.

Keeping his eyes bored into yours and holding you firmly between himself and the wall, Michael began to slowly rock his hips and caress your pussy with his cock, letting his length glide between your folds, teasing you and playing with you, reduced to a visible mess. You even thought you've seen his grin reflected in his eyes, still set on yours; then a hand let go of your ass, forcing you instinctively to hold more tightly around his neck and get even closer to him; he grabbed his cock, used his fat tip to better part your labia and kept it pressed against your entrance, without yet penetrating you. He repositioned his hand under your ass and remained in that position, staring at you, his throbbing tip against your warm and wet hole. He was waiting. He was waiting for you to invite him in.  
The tremble in your gaze, your half open mouth and your breath held back made Michael wheeze, his breath was warm on your face; then, instinctively, your pussy slightly clenched on his tip and that one spasm was the most beautiful invite you could give him. Noticing how his eyes narrowed under the thrust of his cheeks, you understood that Michael, in that suspended, cursed silence, was really grinning, endlessly pleased with his victory, his immense triumph. Game time was over. Now it was time for the main feast. You, with a slight wheeze, gave in and he was finally free to penetrate you with a single, fluid motion.

You expected him to launch into a brutal and animalistic pace, but he didn't. Not at all.  
Michael didn't even fully penetrate you, he only let in his tip, slowly, deliberately. Each movement tickled your clit, each small dive kissed you behind your pubic bone, arousing you and letting your hips follow his rotations every time the tip just entered and then withdrew. You had to want it, you had to beg him to give you more. He wanted you to need him.  
His hands skillfully guided your ass on his cock, every short thrust warmed you more and more, your pussy wetter and wetter. There was no point in resisting. No matter how many times you tried, it never worked: whatever Michael wanted, Michael got. Exactly like your first time. He understood how important it was for you to resist him, how it represented a barrier for you to defend your mind from him and, for this exact reason, he would have led you to give up your resistance, to break down your barrier yourself. Welcoming and wanting him. Repenting that you tried to get rid of him and remaining helpless in his clutches. By totally nullifying yourself for him. It wasn't just about blowing off some steam, there was much more. It was about possession. Control. The same control that, as for you, was slipping more and more through your fingers, with every humiliation, with every lost battle, with every thrust that Michael pushed inside you. The shock of finding him alive and well in front of you and the things that he had convinced you to do had already dried you up, and now your troubled mind was faltering even more easily in the wake of the warm pressure that he was building stronger in your guts.

You were panting more as the first moans escaped from your parted lips, kissed by Michael's hot breath. You felt him withdrew again, almost pulling out and, moaning, he stopped, leaving you whining. Briefly catching his breath, his eyes looked straight into yours, so stunned and dizzy with pleasure and he knew it was the right moment: slowly and ruthlessly, he finally penetrated you, completely plunging his hard cock in your soaked pussy, until his pelvis pressed flush against yours. Every single inch of his dick slowly cracked you open, your huge stretch was painful and pleasant at the same time.  
You felt so full.  
He groaned as you let your head fall back, sharply inhaling from your open mouth. Michael pressed his face against your neck, still savoring the scent of your skin, and his thrusts gradually became more powerful, deeper, letting your depths gradually shape around him. With each push, his hands squeezed your ass harder and the warm pressure inside you grew faster and faster. His face reached out searching for yours. You lowered your head and your eyes met again, he moaned on you while your mind went blank, completely dragged by that cursed and dark pleasure. Michael kept plunging deeply inside you and at a constant, damn perfect pace, every inch of his fat cock squeezed your walls and his tip rubbed and pressed your sweet spot, again and again; the pressure inside you was growing more and more, sweetly intensely, the spring in your core so close to snap. No longer able to contain your moans, you couldn't help but hide your face in his shoulder to silence them, and you closed your eyes. His strong, masculine scent intoxicated you, his strong muscles twitching for you. No matter what he did, you wanted more, more and more, until you couldn't stand it anymore.

Michael kept rocking against you, his big, hungry cock devouring your warm walls, so willing to wrap and satiate him. You were quickly reaching your peak and, feeling your own pussy bubbling for him and your own fluids dripping out of you, you gave up, preparing to be overwhelmed by your wave of pleasure.  
Michael doubled his pace, moaning and mercilessly pushing you to the limit. And, just as the explosive wave inside you began to swell, so ready to crash and overwhelm you, Michael suddenly pulled out his dick, breaking the cursed spell and dragging you back to reality.  
As much as you hated to admit it, the sudden feeling of emptiness filled you with frustration, and a part of you begged him to put it back in and finish you off. With a muffled gasp, you froze and, still panting, you didn't dare to peel off your face from his shoulder: you had just desired the man you hated. You felt so ashamed, so guilty. You disgusted yourself. You had wanted him, you had desired him, it was undeniable. You were confused, you didn't know what to think anymore. Maybe you really belonged to him and you just had to accept it. No, what nonsense were you thinking? He was manipulating you! But if you really figured it out, why couldn't you find the strength to fight him back? Why did you obey him? Did you HAVE TO do it or did you WANT to do it?

You were delusional.  
The stream of those devastating thoughts was interrupted only when something crashed on the floor and your eyes followed the direction from which that sound had come. Looking down over Michael's naked body, right at his feet, his mask was laying, emotionless and empty.

And time suddenly stopped. A single instant diluted in eternity.

In the heat of the moment, you missed how one of his hands had left your ass and removed his mask, before grabbing you again.  
For so long, all you had known of his face had been his eyes, hidden in the shadow of his inscrutable mask, and the mask never spoke, never showed emotions. The mask made him less intimate, less human, made him almost an abstract concept. It was the only form of distance you could get from him; and when he was inside you, his mask made it less intimate, pushing him away. It was somehow your last glimmer of resistance to avoid being totally swallowed up by him.  
But now the mask was empty, it wasn't breathing, and the face it had always hidden was free. You couldn't help but shiver and hold on to him so as to not catch even a glimpse of his real face.

Michael waited patiently through your flow of thoughts and when their race stopped, you realized that his face, his real face, was turned towards you, which was still sinking in his shoulder. Fear. An irrational and intense fear. A fear that made him shiver with excitement while he stood still, with the precise intent to dare you to look at him. You closed your eyes, but you clearly felt his gaze on you, his breath on your neck, that breath you knew so well and that you feared so much, was no longer muffled. It was strong, clear, vivid. It was real. And even more frightening.  
From the slight puff of air that barely shook his torso, you understood that Michael had just silently laughed at your dismay; then he blew gently on your face, making your messy hair softly sway: did he want your attention? A reaction? For you, that gesture was only the last mockery that blew out the feeble flame of your resistance. The fact that he had removed his mask didn't bode well, you felt it in your guts. A deep sense of dark shock resonated within you and then, unexpectedly, you broke the silence:

"I'm sorry, Michael. Please, forgive me."

Few, simple words. Words that escaped you as soft as a sigh. So distant. As if they had been whispered by another you, so far from you, a stranger to you, but who was still you. Scorching and nonsense words. How could you have been asking him for forgiveness? Wrong words. Maybe those were words directed more to yourself than him. Or maybe they were the last, confused plea before being blown away by that indomitable Force that was Michael.

A few simple words that seemed to reach Michael. Then an observation, a detail: it was the first time you called him by name. And you apologized to him. Nobody had ever apologized to him. You kept rambling, his name came out more and more often from your lips, your mind confused and in a trance. And even if you really couldn't know, he liked when you said his name. His breathing became faster and his hands squeezed harder your ass, pushing you even closer to his body. He stiffened against you for a few seconds before pull you away from the wall.

The absence of the support behind you made you cling to him even tighter, and Michael, after turning, dropped you on his bed, the sudden change of position made you snap out of your trance; you bounced and immediately turned your head to the side, your eyes completely shut. Your arms, no longer forced to hug him, remained hovered in front of your chest, your hands the only way to shield your naked body. You felt Michael grab your wrists to open your arms and put them at your sides, while he, already positioned on you, used his knees to open your legs. Bending over you, trapped in his arms, you felt his cock nudging between your thighs and his breath, no longer muffled, was warm and panting on your cheek. You didn't dare to reopen your eyes and you let the man on top of you do whatever he wanted with your body, without opposing it, without uttering a single word. Everything, just to not anger him and force you to open your eyes, to look at him, to give him a human face, to make him more real and similar to you.

Michael's hair gently tickled your face and shoulders. So differently from the vigorous way his hands were groping your breasts, the curve of your hips, your inner thighs. You felt him even closer to you, his face buried into the side of your head: he was breathing you, he was breathing you eagerly, becoming intoxicated with your scent and shivering. And making you shiver too. He rubbed against you as his nose was pressed and bent against your neck, his mouth kissed your skin frantically, his tongue licked you passionately. And he bit. You moaned at the sharp pain and Michael sucked your soft skin into his mouth. He lifted only to be able to move on your chest, his hair gently followed his movements.

He had long hair.

You immediately pushed that thought away, you didn't need to be curious.  
Meanwhile Michael traced a long trail on your collarbones with his tongue, his warm breath on your sensitive skin; one hand was kneading your small breast and, after kissing your shoulder, Michael went down again, your whole body covered with goosebumps. His mouth opened on one of your breasts, his tongue licked your hardened nipple and sucked again. Your moans began to escape more and more often from your lips, soon reached by a hand of Michael still bent over your breast. He pushed two fingers into your mouth, rubbing them on your tongue and he bit the breast still assaulted by his mouth. You arched your back and whimpered, his lips smiled on your skin, his fingers came out of your mouth and stroked your lips. Michael then moved on again only to be able to settle himself lower, between your legs. His hands grabbed them with strenght, making sure that you kept them wide open, the tickling caused by his hair made you jump again. Immediately after, with his head still between your legs, you felt him pressing his mouth on your inner thigh; he licked again and then bit you violently, making you scream and jump on the bed, and he smiled again. He sucked where the skin was softer and then went up again along your body and towards your face. You felt him repositioning his hard and hot cock between your legs, his breath on your cheek, his hair delicate as feathers on you. He stayed like this for a few seconds, contemplating you: you could clearly feel his lustful gaze on your face, twitching with fear and anxiety. Your heart was wildly beating in your chest covered with his saliva, hickeys and bite marks.

Then a hand grabbed your chin and slowly turned your head, so that your face was exactly in front of his. You started to pant, you knew you couldn't keep your eyes closed much longer: Michael wanted you to look at him, and Michael always got what he wanted. He just barely placed his lips on yours, brushing them with surreal gentleness, leaving you completely still. You felt him smile on your lips, while panting heavily. Then, slowly, his tongue came out of his mouth and fully licked your lips, a single movement from the bottom up.  
You trembled and squeezed your shut eyes, it was all so intense, too intense, the confusion was devouring you whole; then what you feared came: he jerked your chin slightly and you understood that the moment had come. You had to look at him. You had to accept that he, as monstrous as he was, was a person and was real, just like you. No barrier between you. Only you and him. The prey and its predator. The object and its owner. With no more barriers, all that would remain would have been a pure and indissoluble bond. Absolute. A bond that you were about to seal with your last surrender.

Totally resigned, you swallowed and slowly started to open your eyes. The darkness gradually faded and your eyes began to focus on the face you had so few inches away. Clenching your jaw, your trembling gaze focused only on his eyes, the eyes that so far were faceless, while your peripheral vision took in the rest. The dim light in the room and his close proximity didn't allow you to capture many details, but from what you could see, Michael looked much younger than you expected. He seemed to be about the same age as you and this simple fact seemed to startle you even more. His features were strong, so manly, and yes, his hair was truly long, long and thick: it hung messly from his head to you, like a curtain that shielded your faces, leaving everything else out. In different circumstances, very different from this, you would have found him even attractive. The mere thought sent you into panic and confused you to the core, turning your stomach inside out. And then, there were those eyes, his eyes, ferocious and affectionate at the same time. Even more unsettling. How could that face conceal such an evil being? How could Michael really be just a man? The man behind the mask: two faces that until now seemed to belong to separate concepts, but which were simply the same thing. Evil incarnate.  
Too much for your broken mind.

That cursed spell suddenly broke when Michael closed in on you again. Frightened, you turned your head away and his soft lips kissed only the corner of your mouth and then went on, licking along your jaw and stopping on your ear. He nibbled your earlobe and went down on your neck, leaving new hickeys on your delicate skin, making you shiver and feel the pit in your stomach grow. One of his hands gently touched your inner thigh and you felt him looking for your entrance again with his dick. He seemed much more hurried, this time. He kept licking and nibbling, while your body could barely move beneath him, your state of deep confusion left you helpless against the arousal that was inevitably warming you; his tip found your soaked entrance and lined up with it. His face returned up to yours, his hair followed like delicate caresses and, holding you still for a few seconds, his hungry gaze looked for yours; when your face showed your total surrender, Michael rolled his hips inside you and, exhaling on your parted lips, returned to plunge himself completely and voluptuously inside you.

The feeling of the devastating fullness he pushed in between your still lubricated, warm and sensitive walls was willingly accepted by your body. Michael rocked his hips against you, his thrusts so powerful and deep. Each push, and you felt it deeper and bigger. And your mind went blank, as he kept stuffing you. Your arousal grew and your last decision was to refuse to look at him in the face as he kept idly moaning with pleasure: the perception of your senses was amplified, while you let the man on top of you squeeze you to the last drop. Michael had now entered your mind too, unsettling it, destroying it and appropriating it: he had completely subjugated you, there was no escape, there was no more need to resist, no one left to protect. Because you weren't here anymore. Because you were gone.

You were gone.

Completely lost, you let him guide you, use you and it wasn't that bad anymore: you felt no pain, no fear. You didn't feel anything anymore. It will be over soon. You had learned your lesson and it didn't matter if you would die immediately after, since you no longer existed anyway.  
Michael was raptly watching every reflection of your thoughts on your face, while your body was finally completeley at his service, not even trying to resist his assaults. The man who had emptied you was pleasently filling you, squishing your damp walls as his cock kept rubbing and pushing against your sweet spot, again and again. One of his hands squeezed your ass, pulling your skin and stretching more your abused pussy: you moaned as you were crossed by another electrifying jolt of excitement, building up the pressure in your stomach. With each thrust, Michael kept rocking his hips against you, another groan escaped from your lips and Michael stroked your face, moaning and keeping his pace. You clenched around his cock and he moaned again, his face against yours. As soon as your dazed eyes met his, still ferocious and doting at the same time, the slight feeling of nausea that gripped your stomach achieved nothing: you pushed it down, suffocating it, and without realizing it you were already grinding against him.  
The slightest smile was drawn on his face and his thrusts pushed mightily inside you, making you feel as if you were soaring, getting closer to your peak. Your hands clung to his strong shoulders, one of your hands wandered through his hair, twisting it between your fingers and pulling him closer to you, the knot in your stomach tightened. As Michael reached for your lips, you tilted your head back, exposing your neck, on which he once again dove eagerly. He sucked on your neck while you pushed your pelvis completely against his, letting him to split you open in two and fill you beyond all limits. You wanted him to give you more, all you could and more. A single body, a single being.

Your clenches became closer, deeper and deeper, and your own pussy sucked him in with a growing desire, insatiable. Michael was grunting louder, his self-control harder to mantain, so that he stopped abusing your neck. You were close, so close to exploding, the overwhelming wave swelled bigger and bigger in your depths, your breath more and more labored, your body more and more clinging to your tormentor's body. His fat tip kissed your sweet spot ever harder and the tight knot in your stomach was so close to snap. Michael slightly lifted his head, pressing his cheek against yours, your moans panting in each other's ear. And then the scent of his hair. With another strong push, Michael broke through your last resistance into your sweet spot and your spring snapped. The wave overwhelmed you, the shock of a thousand convulsive spasms threw you into an irresistible frenzy. He pulled his cheek away from yours just in time to be able to look at you as you were overwhelmed by your immense orgasm: your eyes disappeared into the back of your head, your mouth open with the extreme pleasure. Under your unstoppable convulsions, your back arched backward, your legs trembled under the might of the gigantic wave. Your spasms convulsively tightened on Michael's cock, sucking it violently and greedily inside you. He howled and panted and was finally free to let himself go. Riding the overwhelming power of your orgasm, Michael's pace immediately doubled, eager to release all his tension within you. He pumped violently inside you, your walls still wrapped and strong around him; he held on to the bed for further support and, grunting like a wild animal, he slammed into you again and again until, with one last, powerful push, Michael stiffened: you felt his cock swell up and throb, while he, trembling and grunting, sprayed streams of hot cum inside your squashed pussy, flooding your walls and prolonging the last wake of your orgasm.

-

Time seemed to be suspended around you, your waning breaths were the only clock hands that were marking it.  
Michael had collapsed completely on you, his body weight made it difficult for you to catch your breath in the bliss of your afterglow.

Michael recovered faster, but not fully.  
You were still keeping your eyes closed as he lift and, shortly after, he pulled out: a string of liquid, still stuck to his tip, was dragged out by his cock and remained glued to your inner thigh, while the first rivers of cum were already dribbling between your folds. Aware that your time had come, you barely opened your eyes and he was still on top of you, looking at you, his messy hair didn't completely hide his face still dazed by the bliss of his senses. His eyes traveled up, on his knife still on the nightstand, and then again on you. He adjusted his position, so that he could grab your waist, making you flip onto your stomach: your first jolts of fear in view of your imminent execution. Michael bent down, leaning on his hand placed in the middle of your back, while his other hand, entering your field of vision, reached out to grab his knife. Another thrill of fear crossed through you, tears moistened your eyes, your first sobs softly escaped through your quivering lips. Was it really over? Would you really die like this, then?  
Michael placed his forearm on your back, using also his weight to hold you still and, as he spread your legs blocking them with his ones, your naked body began to shake, your survival istinct, waking up in pure terror, began to take over. Panting and sobbing, you widened more your eyes and suddenly you stopped feeling empty. You were terrified, terrified like only the living can be.  
Michael pressed again down on your back to keep you as still as possible and, as you tried to remember how your life was used to be before this hell, through your warm and incontrollable tears, you hoped that at least death would take you quickly and without too much suffering.

Grueling, endless seconds, and then you felt it. A hot and fast cut slid straight into your inner thigh, carving your flesh with ease. You screamed, you screamed like a fury. Wild, primordial screams. After the first cut another shorter one followed, then another and he paused, brushing away the blood from his blade on your hip. And he went back to it again. Another incision, burning and painful, and you screamed again, your voice strangled by your own cry. Michael kept holding you still and while he cut your soft skin, you screamed and cried, your nails scratched his sheets, and then you squeezed them in your clenched, shaking fists. His work went on, new cuts, as short as painful, sliced your skin. Your face sank in his pillow, impregnated with his scent and your tears, your screams and cry muffled but no less ferocious, until, exhausted and sweaty, you could no longer shout, cry or beat your fists.

The whole procedure was short but strenuous and, with one last, burning cut, Michael finally stopped pressing on your back and stood up. He watched his work carved in your inner thigh, licking the last drops of blood on the blade, before dropping the knife. With no hesitation, he shove and curled two fingers into your pussy, coating them with your fluids and his cum, and smeared the mixture on the incision he had just made, making you hiss and groan.

Numb with the pain you had to endure, you had no more reactions to give him as he got down on you again and, after wiping some stray hair away from your eyes and cheeks, pulled you by the hair, arching you backwards until your face was next to his. Your dull gaze met his eyes, still ferocious and doting at the same time. You caught his evil grin before he gently grazed his lips on your cheek and dragged them to your ear. He watched you from under his lashes, savoring that moment, before he opened his eyes again, piercing yours.  
Without ever taking his gaze away from yours, he pressed his lips to your ear, smiling sincerely, and in a deep and husky voice he whispered to you a simple word:

"Mine."

Your blood ran cold.  
This last, unexpected gesture filled you with horror again and, just as your eyes and mouth widened in amazement, Michael closed in on you and trapped you in a kiss without escape, strong, passionate, aggressive. He used his hand in your hair to push you more against his mouth and he shoved his tongue deep in, hungry and inexperienced. After exploring you, he closed his mouth on yours and he parted with a loud smack of the lips; looking at your dazed face, he smiled again before letting go, making you fall and plunge into his pillow.  
Completely shocked and troubled, you lay still and powerless, while he got up and, getting his knife and clothes back, he stepped out the room, closing the door behind him and leaving you alone on his bed.

Silence.

Time was now like a broken watch.  
And you were still lying motionless. Completely lost. Completely broken. Until the river of emotions began to grumble in your depths: you felt it grow, deafened you and finally hit you like a wrecking ball.  
You began to sob, then the sobs became more and more convulsive, the crying more and more hysterical.  
Anger and pain flared up with the power of a thousand fires inside you and your face pressed harder into his pillow.

"Fuck! FUCK! FUUUUUCK!!"

Your cry warped into furious and desperate screams.  
Your face still in his pillow, still in his scent, pressed harder inside it until your neck hurt. And you screamed, over and over, until your throat burned, until you couldn't stand it anymore. You suddenly shut up and finally broke away from that damned pillow. The warm, throbbing numbness in your inner thigh caught your attention. You turned and sat on the bed, hissing in pain, and moved your leg further to take a better look. The skin was completely covered with blood, making it impossible to understand the extent of the damage, so you looked around the room, searching for something that would help you clean the wound. The sink across the room would have been perfect.  
Still shaken and trembling, you dragged yourself off the bed and stood up, your wobbling legs seemed to have a hard time remembering how to walk. You picked up your clothes still on the floor and reached the sink. You crumpled a corner of your shirt and, opening the tap, you soaked it under the jet of water. Moving slightly the skin over the wound with the other hand, you bent forward and gently dabbed on the wound and, wincing with pain, you gradually washed away the blood.

And the more blood you washed away, the harder it became to stop the new tears from moistening your eyes.

When you finished cleaning yourself, you couldn't help but let yourself slip on the floor and, curling up, be enveloped in total despair, in total defeat. How long would it take you to completely lose your mind? Opposing him meant being humiliated and tortured, surrendering to him meant losing yourself. And while the abyss was swallowing you into its depths, you wondered why your mind persisted in fueling your survival instinct. Yes, because in this condition, surviving was just another way of dying.

The engraving on your leg from which you couldn't get your eyes off wasn't a simple wound. It was a mark, a signature. It was a sigil: his sigil. The physical proof of your exclusive and indissoluble bond, the bond he had chosen for you.  
Your eyes retraced the bloody letters that formed that sigil, letters that would heal on your skin, leaving a vivid scar and becoming a permanent part of you. Even readable. Suddenly you understood what was the lesson that Michael wanted you to learn. He wasn't just punishing you. No. Reading that incision and rethinking what he had done and forced you to do gave you the feeling that there was something more, something deeper.

It wasn’t revenge; instead, he made you believe it, terrorizing you and exploiting your survival instincts. Then he deeply confused you, toying with your emotions, always so easily readable on your face, and used them against you. Always keeping you on your toes at the idea of what could happen next made you even more terrified, and hence vulnerable. He goaded you into giving in to what he wanted, to make you need him, increasing your guilt, your shame, your sense of powerlessness and inferiority, until you turned into a complete and obedient mess. His mess. Deeply invading your mind, too, he cleverly manipulated and subjugated you.

It was the best way to make you learn, really learn, that you belonged to him. You were his, totally his. After killing him, you tried to escape and break your bond, and that was the real problem: you couldn't run away from him because you were his property, his personal belonging. You were his. Just like he whispered in your ear. It was a normal, simple fact. He had chosen you, so now he owned you, and the sooner you made him your whole world, the sooner you would finally be happy with him. After all, he knew how to take care of you, how to make you experience pleasure. You just had to drop all those barriers and welcome him, let him enter you. Totally. By succumbing and subjugating, undoing yourself so that you could be completely devoured by him.

The dark abyss had almost entirely engulfed you while you kept reading his mark on your inner thigh. It was just a word, but its power was immense. The feeling of the blade slicing you was still vivid and burning, but one day your mind would have dulled the memory of the pain your body had to endure. And perhaps for this reason Michael had decided to show himself and speak to you: the memory of his face and voice would have put you back in place. And just as your eyes were once again retracing those letters engraved in your flesh, with horror you realized that the voice reading them was no longer the voice of your mind, but Michael's voice. You tried to reread the word with your voice, but your own mind kept answering with Michael's deep and husky voice:

"MINE".


	3. The Fine Line

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I'm so happy to finally be able to upload this chapter, it took me ages and that's why I ask you for forgiveness!! Unfortunately, due to my misjudgement, I found myself needing 4 chapters instead of 3, so I humbly ask you for forgiveness for this! >.<
> 
> There's another, very important thing that I want to tell you: THANK YOU!! Thank you from the bottom of my heart: the warmth and positivity that you've given me have been marvelous and, being this for me the first time I share one of my fanfic, it means the world to me. I hope to meet your expectations and that the wait is worth it!
> 
> The only warning I think I should give: this chapter contains more "interactions" with blood: I hope it's all right!! >.<
> 
> But now, without further ado, let's go! I really hope you like it!! <3 ^-^ <3

It still felt like late at night when you jolted awake. Another nightmare and another twinge of pain. The feeling of wetness between your legs and the throbbing pain didn't bode well. Your wound broke open again and the blood was glistening along the outlines of the word engraved in your flesh. You sat up and leaned forward to take a better look, despite the heaviness that still weighed on your eyes. Your dazed senses focused on your wound: the skin looked red and you still felt it sharply pulsating; you feared an infection. Besides, the place where you were confined wasn't exactly hygienic and, if you got sick, you doubted that Michael could be a good caregiver. The mere thought made his face flash clearly in your mind and you gasped; you turned around and realized that he wasn't with you that night either. You had fallen asleep without even realizing it and Michael hadn't joined you yet. Tonight too, someone else would probably die.

You shook that thought away and stood up. The radiating burning in your inner thigh was intense and you tried to do something useful with the little you had. Your torn t-shirt was still in the pile of your things, so you decided to tear it in as many bands as you could, so as to use them as makeshift bandages. You obtained several strips out of your t-shirt and washed them in the sink, using part of your bubble bath in the various bottles collected by Michael. Holding the more or less clean bandage between your teeth, you proceeded to wash the patch of red and pulsating skin; then with extreme delicacy you ran a fingertip along your carved "I", hissing and collecting the liquid that came out, and you brought it closer to your eyes, so as to understand if there were traces of pus. You weren't sure and it was still too dark to have a better look, so you proceeded to wash the whole wound: every single letter was still sharp pain that made you hiss and whine under the jet of water.  
After you were done, your skin seemed to glow with an even more aggressive red. Gently, you began to press the wet bandage on the M and you ran the two flaps all around your thigh, gradually wrapping the I, then the N and finally the E. You wrapped the remaining length around the fabric that was already covering your wound, creating a thicker layer. With a final knot, your makeshift bandage was done and the feeling of coolness given by the contact of the wet fabric on your burning wound was enough to give you a momentary relief.

And in the silence of that lonely night, you looked back towards the still empty bed: Michael hadn't returned yet and probably even tonight you would have slept alone. You didn't know what was worse: when he wasn't with you, someone outside was brutally killed, you knew it by now. But if he wasn't out killing, then he was with you. And you knew all too well what happened with you.

He killed people, but not you.

Anyone would die if he had decided so. Anyone except you. And he could have done it, especially after YOU had stabbed him. But he hadn't. As absurd and twisted as it was, he seemed to have forgiven you that same night; he had seen something in you, you had a role in his life. It didn't matter what your opinion on it was, since you weren't allowed to have any. You were alive because he wanted it. And suddenly you felt guilty for having complained of the throbbing pain in your leg. Someone outside was brutally dying, but not you.

Your chest seemed suddenly burdened and, silently, you went back to bed. Once, you would have preferred to sleep on the floor, but now no longer. After that dreadful night, you no longer curled up in any corner: if Michael wanted you on that bed, you would have been on that bed. You didn’t want to do anything, anything at all, that could displease or - worse - upset him. He could kill people with ease. He could torture you. He could do anything he wanted.  
No, you had to be obedient. You were too terrified and devastated to do otherwise. You killed him, but he didn't, and he could have. But he hadn't. You had to obey. To obey and... wait more, maybe?  
You brooded over your confused, obsessive thoughts until your eyes started to burn, your eyelids became heavier and heavier. And then, finally, only darkness.

-

As soon as you woke up, that rare and momentary sense of drifting vanished painfully, letting you sink in your ever-present mute despair that immediately dried you up of all energy. With each awakening another part of you seemed to slowly fade. You would have slept all day, just to not feel the disaster swirling within you.  
The side of the bed next to you has been left empty: even tonight, Michael hadn't slept with you. He killed people. Guilt sank your heart even more. You looked around, your eyes still lazy; the tray left on the small desk indicated that Michael had returned as usual to bring you your meal. What you needed to survive belonged to someone he had killed. And every time you accepted to eat, you felt that innocent blood on your hands, too.

You got out of bed and only then a strange sensation caught your attention. There was something odd on your skin, something sticky, it made your skin pull in some parts of your face, neck and upper chest. You ran your fingers over one cheek and something flaked from your skin with ease. Confused, you approached the boarded up window, so as to use the faint light to see your chest and take a better look. Your eyes widened as soon as you noticed a thin, milky trail that had been squirted from your chest to your neck. You passed your fingers over it and even that residue peeled off as easily as the one on your cheek. You gulped at the thought, while scraping off the residual left on your neck. Was it really what you were thinking? Could it be possible that Michael had--? While you were sleeping! Why would he do that?!  
Since that night, in fact, after carving and claiming you, he had never touched you again, he almost seemed to avoid you. And several days had already passed since that night. If that milky, dry residue on your skin was what you thought - and there didn't seem to be another more plausible explanation - then he still had his needs, but he was using you differently to satisfy them. Michael had never wanted to waste even a single drop of his cum, he had always wanted to fill you to the brim, so why had he now opted for this new method? What had changed?

The throbbing hot pain in your inner thigh interrupted your flow of thoughts: you had to check your wound and change the bandages. You untied the knot and gently unrolled the bandage, revealing the carved word: each letter seemed to shine of a bright and screaming red, the skin was swollen and inside some letters you seemed to see some pus, just as you feared. You didn't like the way it looked at all, much less the idea that an infected wound was so close to your privates. You didn't have much at your disposal, so you decided to wash and change the bandage with some clean ones you had ripped and washed the previous night. Your meal would have waited. If Michael was at home, he would have heard the water running, he would have understood that you were awake. Would he have come to you? The water flowed over you while you hoped that he would continue to avoid you: among the various options, you far preferred that his cum ended up ON your body and not INSIDE it. You soaped yourself: it still felt wrong to smell the scent of your bubble bath in this prison. The water was splashing, the foam was sliding down. Considering your wound, the mere thought that his body could rub against it worried you even more: it would have hurt you so much, it could reopen and get worse. Suddenly, the thought flashed in your mind, your mouth dropped: was this perhaps the reason behind-- was he really holding back because--? Didn't he want to make your wound worse or didn't he simply want to ruin the accuracy of the incisions he carved in your flesh?! A spark of anger crossed you, but it lasted only a moment. You hurried to finish washing yourself, in case he decided to enter your room: even if it didn't make too much difference, you didn't want to let him find yourself already naked and wet. Hot water seemed to have set alight your inner thigh, but you told yourself it was good for the inflammation. You stepped out of the shower. Maybe both hypotheses were correct, but as long as his cum was outside your body and not inside, you didn't care about knowing the answer.

You quickly put on some underwear that you had previously washed and the t-shirt you had on earlier, and you decided to eat before bandaging your leg, so as to let your skin relax for a little while. But you found yourself staring at the meal on the tray: Michael was still taking care of you, even if he wasn't using you as he always had. Was it some form of kindness of his?  
You ate despite the nausea in your stomach and, when you finished, you remained staring at the empty tray in front of you, undecided about what to do. You would have cleaned it and its contents up, if it were up to you, but this presupposed leaving your room: would Michael have agreed with your initiative? If Michael was really resisting his primordial impulses to give your wound time to heal, perhaps a gentle gesture on your part would have motivated him to continue being, well... "kind"? Within his limits, of course. In your indecision, you grabbed the tray, your grip wavered, you couldn't even remember the last time your grip was firm. Maybe Michael would feel more motivated to respect you, if you did something kind to him, something that would show your gratitude for his more "human" behavior in the last few days. You shook your head, you were delusional. Your prolonged confinement and what you were going through was clouding your mind, you certainly had such a need for an actual human contact so that you were seeking for it in him, who was human only in shape. He was evil, and your infected wound was proof of that! He killed people! People...

But not you.

You stood in front of the door: maybe it wasn't locked. You could have tried to open it and walk through it, since you were no longer chained. Of course, there was no need for a chain anymore: you would never have dared to escape after what had happened last time, you would have preferred to lose your mind because of your confinement, rather than anger Michael. You were too scared, and he knew it. No, there was clearly no need for a chain anymore. And then, you never knew if Michael was home or not, everything was always so silent. He was avoiding you, but why? Was it really a little hint of humanity, what you glimpsed? If he was really feeling compassion, maybe you should have taken advantage of it to make your captivity a little more bearable, at least until the police - whoever - found you.

..What if he was putting you to the test instead? Maybe to see how you would have behaved, if you had tried to escape again. Or maybe he was manipulating you again for some other reason that you were still unaware of. So he wasn't waiting for your wound to heal, it wasn't a form of kindness: he was setting a trap for you, he was making fun of you! He was certainly enjoying the idea of how paranoid you had become. And you wanted to make a kind gesture to such a monster: you felt so stupid!

Your thoughts kept racing aimlessly. The constant state of deep terror in which you were living had turned into a sort of hysterical obsession. It consumed you. It exhausted you. You inhaled deeply, the tray still trembled in your shaking hands. No, he had come back while you were sleeping. After whole days without having sex with you, he had come back to masturbate while watching you, his dried cum on your body was a message. He could have just raped you in your sleep, it wouldn't have been the first time after all, but he hadn't. Perhaps this gesture was his sick way to tell you that he was holding back only for your sake. He killed people, but not you. He fed you, kept you healthy. Maybe he was really waiting for your wound to heal. The idea of feeling almost respected gave you a slight, strange feeling of absurd consolation. In his own way, he was being kind after all.

Your eyes focused again on the door, the doorknob still covered in his dried blood. What if he didn't want you out of your room? Besides, he never gave you this permission. What if you made him angry? Your heart started pumping, you were hyperventilating again. And the door in front of you opened.  
Leaping in terror, you dropped the tray on the floor, while Michael towered motionless in front of you, his head slowly lowering to look at the tray at his feet was his only reaction. He raised his head again, his gaze rested on you, who were always so shaky, always on the verge of a breakdown. You started to ramble under his penetrating and intense gaze, you tried to explain, to make sense of your babbling words, as you sank more and more into your shoulders and your shaking hands rose in front of your face.

Michael stood motionless, watching impassively. The mask showed nothing, said nothing. Tears began to water your vision, you sought his eyes beyond the black abyss. A twinkle shone for a few moments from behind the dark holes: he was steadily staring at you and you were keeping him waiting. You tried to concentrate.

"I'm sorry Michael, I wanted-- I just thought I could have cleaned up this tray, I swear!"

You expected to see a tilt of his head. He didn't.

"I wasn't trying to run away, I didn't mean to disappoint you!"

He kept being as still as a statue, your voice cracked even more.

"I-- I'm begging you, believe me, forgive me, I just thought--"

You burst into tears, imploring his forgiveness, your legs almost collapsed beneath your own weight.

Michael had no answer to give you, he remained silent looking at you: his breathing was all you had. You swallowed another sob as Michael slowly reached out a hand. He grabbed you by the chin, his grip firm but that didn't mean to hurt. He lifted your head so that he could look at your face. You stopped crying, while the last tears that escaped from your eyes plunged into your quivering lips. You returned his gaze: if Michael wanted you to look at him, you had to look at him.  
He tilted his head, lowering it and looking down at your body, much further from your face. Your questioning gaze flickered and you quickly glanced in the direction he was looking, before returning to obediently watch his eyes. Michael slightly lifted your long t-shirt, showing your fluorescent inner thigh. He watched carefully for a few seconds and faintly sighed. Then he returned to an upright position, his arms hanging again by his sides, and he stood staring at you. You snapped out and immediately knelt to clean up the mess you had made with the tray. Quickly. Frantically. You didn't want to make him wait, you didn't want to make him angry. As you finished, you jumped to your feet, like a little soldier ready to follow any order, the tray clinking again in your shaking hands.

You remained standing, your knees were wobbling, your gaze lowered. So obedient. So submissive. His response was only his slightly heavier breathing. You closed your eyes, your mind pleaded your hands to stop shaking. Then Michael hissed and immediately grabbed your hands still wrapped around the tray. You winced and reopened your eyes, the clinking stopped, you dared to look at him with reverential respect. He stood motionless staring at you, his big hands covering yours, his grip firm but that didn't mean to hurt. You blinked and looked at the tray: his long fingers were grasping it past yours; you loosened your grip, his hands didn't even falter, the tray wasn't clinking. Your eyes widened to look up again towards his eyes, inscrutable and fixed on you. And after a slight hesitation, you cautiously slid out your hands from under his, leaving the tray in his hands.  
Michael stepped back and turned to the side, heading for the railing of the stairs, his elbow, following the movement, pushed the door. Just moments before the door closed in your face, your gaze darted lower and you caught a glimpse of that bulge you knew so well, poorly hidden by his mechanic coveralls.

-

When you opened your eyes again, it was still night. Another nightmare. You were exhausted. In the confusion of your awakening, you remembered you gave Michael back his tray and bandaged your wound. Then you probably spaced out, staring into space, as it was happening to you more and more often after that night, until you fell asleep. You would have slept all day, just to keep from not feeling anything anymore, just to have a break from the disaster that was eating you from inside like a parasite, weakening and drying you up. You snapped back to reality again and instinctively turned to the other side of the bed: he wasn't with you even tonight. You ran a hand over your face, your upper chest: no trace of dried liquids on your skin. Michael was still holding back, while still taking care of you, even if in his own twisted, perverse way. Once again, this thought made you feel profoundly sick: since he had stopped touching and abusing you, you had even more time to mull, your desperate obsessiveness was like a deafening swarm of conflicting voices in your head; he was always in your thoughts, whether you wanted it or not, you seemed to be unable to think of anything else, especially since he had started to behave so uncharacteristically. Your suffocating confinement, the eternal struggle between pleasure and suffering that Michael always managed to unleash within you and this sudden, surreal semblance of humanity: everything was so confusing, so absurd, so that you kept finding yourself deeply lost and exhausted. You knew you were something "special" for him, but trying to decipher his behavior towards you only dried you up and triggered even more conflicting emotions: the terror in which you constantly lived seemed to subtract strength from the hatred that you instead should have felt, letting you almost beg for this semblance of humanity of his. You thought again about that terrible night and the idea that he, in a certain way, seemed to want you to reciprocate his "affection" gave you a deep anxiety, nauseating you even more: the feelings of guilt, disgust and shame that you felt even for just considering the idea of giving in to him destabilized you more and more. What you were willing to do just to survive... You barely whimpered in silence. If only you managed to pause your mind... You needed a respite from always feeling so filthy and devastated. If only there was a way to make everything more bearable, more understandable.

You sat up and curled up, enveloped in the darkness of your room, the bed creaked slightly, and then the silence. As always. Not a single sound. You were no longer even sure that there was a world outside your room. How long had it been? What had happened after they found out that you were no longer at home, that you were missing? Did they search for you? Were they still looking for you? Michael had been with you in your own bed, there must have been traces, they knew he didn't kill you after he-- Everyone knew it. Everyone knew what he had done to you in your own bed. More shame, more guilt, more pain. The memory of your past life seemed so distant, so hazy. It hurt too much to think about it. Maybe they gave you up for dead and stopped looking for you. How long have you already been waiting for someone to find you, to break through that door and finally free you? Part of you wanted to cry, but the truth was, you couldn't do it anymore. The lead weight in you was too big, too heavy, while you were smaller and weaker. The world outside had forgotten about you. You were alone.

But then again, a part of you was still waiting. Waiting to be found.

You would have slept all day just to not feel. You begged for anything, even the most desperate solution, just to stop feeling that deep and confusing pain you had inside. As much as your mind was faltering more and more, there was always a part of you that persisted in wanting to survive. It was absurd. Pure agony. A nonsensical contradiction. And you couldn't even want to stop living. Perhaps the thought of the only people who would never abandon you was the only reason why your mind persisted in resisting. Your boyfriend wouldn't survive the pain of knowing you were dead. You knew him well, you knew he still held hope. You were probably surviving for him, for your loved ones, you didn't want them to die of pain, you didn't want them to turn into Michael's indirect victims. But meantime, nobody was still breaking through that door to save you. You had to resist, to endure, to keep waiting.  
You looked again at the empty side of your bed and you even hoped to be swallowed by some kind of Stockholm Syndrome, anything, just not to feel, just to pause your existence. At least until someone found you, until someone saved you. In case someone was still looking for you.

A respite from this hell was all you were asking for. Just a little peace.

Your gaze rested on your inner thigh: it hurt; maybe you should have changed the bandages. You got up and went to the small bathroom of your bedroom, the bands made from your torn t-shirt were dry and rather clean. That night he had cut off that t-shirt and you had undressed for him. You untied the bandage, took a look: the wound was red, painful, perhaps a little less pulsating. You still felt his lustful gaze on your naked body, the warmth of his hands caressing your skin, his desire for you, and a damn shudder stirred between your legs, your alarmed mind, your nauseated stomach. How could there be a part of you that felt pleasure in thinking of him? You let water flow over the wound, hissed in pain, but this time the sense of freshness wasn't enough to give you some relief. His face, his true face, flashed again before your eyes. He was scary and attractive at the same time. The memory of his muscles twitching under your hands, the sense of fullness, his warmth. He killed people, but not you. He was aroused, he wanted you, but he had preferred to go away with the tray. A creature capable of taking lives without any remorse, a being that not even death wanted to accept, so powerful and indomitable, and he had chosen to take care of you, while the world outside had abandoned you. You needed to feel safe, you needed human warmth. Maybe if you had been nice to him, he would have continued to be nice to you.

You gasped again, you shook your head: you were delirious again. You breathed deeply, trying to stifle the disgust that you caused yourself and reached the bandages. And you suddenly stopped. There was something new on the edge of the sink, an item you had never seen. After a few moments of hesitation, you grabbed it to take a closer look despite the darkness of your room.  
Your mouth dropped: it was a first aid kit. For the first time, you seemed to really feel a slight feeling of relief: it was short, it lasted only a moment, but it was enough to let you release some tension. You sighed: at that moment, that was undeniably a small gesture of humanity towards you. As absurd as it was, it was like a glimpse of light in the endless, gloomy darkness that constantly enveloped you; it was consoling, heartening, despite being from your own tormentor. And, even if you knew that no one besides you would have heard it, you couldn't help whispering in that suspended silence a tremulous, faint "Thank you.".

You decided to not wait the next day and proceeded with the dressing: in a short time the new bandage, made of real, sterile gauze, covered your wound, finally disinfected. There was enough material for some other dressing, and the healing ointment would speed up the healing process.  
Staying anchored as much as possible to that slight sense of relief, you went back to bed and hoped that sleep would swallow you soon.

If only you had been a little more careful and a little more mentally lucid, you would probably have noticed that you weren't so alone after all. At least, not in your room. The masked man never left you alone; he was standing motionless in a corner, watching you all night, wrapped in darkness and silence. He had seen you curled up in your loneliness, lost in your silent and confused inner struggles. He had heard your every moan, your every slight lament. And then, that unaware and grateful whisper of yours. So submissive and sincere. So fulfilling.

Nobody had ever thanked him.

-

Several days had passed by now, and your wound was basically healed; you already knew there would be a clear scar on your skin, yet it didn't make the sight of it any less impressive. He claimed you, marked you, you were his. He could have killed you, but he hadn't. He had also helped your wound to heal and it almost overshadowed the fact that he was the solely responsible for it. He was still avoiding touching you like he always had. It was a long time now. Maybe if you had been kinder to him, he would have continued to be kind to you. You weren't sure it would work, but you weren't sure of anything anymore: every day the fluctuations of your mood were more and more violent and unpredictable, you alternated extreme nervousness and catatonia, you needed to go out, shout, cry, run, breathe. You needed to be listened to by the world that had abandoned you, you needed to be found, saved, consoled. You needed to feel nothing. You were just asking for a respite.

You approached the only window in your room, boarded up and covered. But your eyes remained lingering between the cracks of the wooden beams anyway, craving to see the light outside, imagining the wind on your skin, the scent of the air. And once again, you lost track of time. When you snapped out of it, it was already dark, your whole body aching from the prolonged standing position in which you had remained. The door creaked behind you, your heart jumped. He was back. You instantly turned towards him, your eyes anxiously waiting for a sign of his. You had to be kind, obedient. You had to behave. You convinced yourself that he, in his twisted and perverse way, was the closest thing you had to a human being by now. Everyone had abandoned you, everyone had forgotten you. Everyone had gone on with their lives; instead, he always came back, he had forgiven you, helped you heal. You could have shown at least some gratitude.

Michael slowly entered the room, stopping at the foot of the bed. You gasped, the terrible realization: you weren't on the bed where he had always wanted you. You panicked, raved, tried to justify yourself. You were near the window, maybe he had thought you wanted to escape; he would have been angry, he would have hurt you. You had to be nice, to behave, and instead look at this mess! With unsteady legs, you rushed to the bed, in front of him, you asked for forgiveness. You hadn't forgotten how much you feared Michael. He stood staring at you, his heavy breathing returned to fill your ears. His heavy breathing. You held back the unbridled rush of your paranoid ramblings. You knew what that heavy breath meant. This time you had to behave, and perhaps he would be kind to you. More human. It wouldn't have been easy, but if you'd been focused on letting yourself go, you might have learned. With time. With patience. You could have made your captivity more bearable until they found you. And you would finally stop feeling the disaster inside you.

You briefly held your breath, you composed yourself. Lowering your head, you tried to relax, to not resist. Whatever he was going to do, you wouldn't have resisted. You were his, his deep and husky voice kept repeating it in your mind. Silence was broken only by his heavy breathing. He slightly circled around you and sat down at the foot of the bed: despite his sitting position, he could still look at you without having to raise his head. Your uncertain eyes looked to the side, seeking for his. His white mask was staring at you, his chest rising and sinking with each echoing breath. Then, one of his hands reached for your wrist, his grip firm but that didn't mean to harm; he pulled you slightly, you didn't hesitate to follow his movements. You had to behave. You wondered what he wanted you to exactly do and you waited. You would have been obedient.

Michael gently let go of your wrist and reached the edge of your t-shirt. He slightly lifted it, revealing your bandaged thigh, and shifted his gaze from the gauze to your eyes. The incision was scarred by now, actually there was no need to bandage it anymore; maybe you just kept doing it just to have something to do, to keep your mind busy. To not feel. You blinked and mumbled something; Michael slipped a finger underneath the bandage, benting it and motioning to you. And you, so obedient, nodded while your trembling hands began to remove the gauze.

You had to stay calm.

You dropped the fabric on the floor, you stammered something, you tried to thank him for the first aid kit, but he didn't seem to care about your words at all. His attention was totally focused on your scar; his head tilted to the side so to align itself better with the engraved word, he came closer to see better: he was admiring the final result of his handiwork on you, the symbol of your bond. Every single line was clear, the scar tissue stood out against the rest of your delicate skin thanks to the mismatched color and texture, making it even more visible; a subtle interplay of light and shadow showed how the scar stuck out over the rest of the skin around it. Michael softly sighed and his hand hovered gently over the entire incision; then he began to trace the edges of the letters with his fingertips, his delicate touch, the aura around him was magnetic, he seemed so enraptured.

As soon as he finished caressing your scar, Michael gently woke from his trance and looked back at you. His hands rested on your hips and brought you even closer to him, trapping you between his strong legs. You, so obedient, didn't even try to resist and indulged his movements. His hands traversed the curve of your hips, lingering on your ass, his thumbs gently stroking your skin in soft circles. He was still kind. He slightly groped it and then his hands, slipping under your t-shirt, traveled up your lumbar area until they encircled your waist: it seemed thinner, you probably had lost weight. And then he went back to his little journey on your body, his calloused hands found your breasts, cupped them and he gently squeezed them. Your nipples hardened, you had goosebumps, you narrowed your eyes: his touch was still gentle, you were behaving well. You didn't dare to break your eye contact so you returned his gaze, your breath was a bit more laboured. Michael was still groping your breast, gently, his heavy breathing was coming out in warm puffs. Helping himself with his arms, he lifted your t-shirt more and stood still, waiting: from that position it was difficult to take it off gently, so you should have helped him.

A jolt stirred in your stomach and you pressed your lips, the flashbacks of that night appeared in your mind; you swallowed and after a few moments of hesitation, you grabbed the edges of your t-shirt and took it off, offering Michael a complete view of your naked torso. He puffed again and stood looking at you, his hands again on your breast: he groped it with more vigor, but without hurting you, he grabbed your nipples between his fingers. He twisted them and softly pinched them, making you wince. Then his huge hands moved upward, letting your collarbones slide under his palms, a warm trail followed them, and then his hands wrapped around your thin neck, completely covering it. He applied only a slight pressure, your pulse was beating strong against his fingers. His grip was light but more than enough to remind you of who was in charge, how easily he could snap your neck: you hadn't forgotten how much you feared Michael; then his hands parted, smoothly walking along the ramp from your neck to your shoulders, moving your hair away and sliding along your arms, until he grabbed your wrists. He held them firmly in his hands, his grip strong but that was not leaving any bruises, and he kept staring at you. He slightly tilted his head and brought your hands close to your panties: he was testing you. You wouldn't have failed, you would have been obedient. He would have convinced you in one way or another to do what he wanted anyway: it might as well be done in the simplest possible way. You inhaled more deeply, you tried to focus. The flashbacks of that night still popped up before your eyes, there was no point in resisting. He could be kind, you just had to obey him. His voice, like that night, echoed in your mind, repeating the same word over and over again. You just had to obey him. You hooked your fingers to the edge of your panties, a vivid image took shape in your mind. In the dark, you managed to see yourself in a vehicle: you were small and weak, sitting in the passenger seat; turning slightly your head, your eyes searched for the driver seat, already occupied by Michael. You would have let Michael drive, you wouldn't have opposed him. And it didn't matter that that vehicle was your own mind. Maybe one day someone would have broken through the door of your room and you would have been back in the driver seat. But now, it was Michael's place, only Michael could have been behind the wheel. It was he who was driving. Only he could. You blinked and your panties were already lying at your feet.

Michael panted loudly, the bulge between his legs was as huge as the undeniable power that your total submissiveness was giving him. He stared at you for a long time in the dim light of your room, the sense of unease stirred in your stomach, but you pushed it down. You were the passenger of your mind, he was the driver. One day you would have no longer felt that disgusting lump in your stomach. With time. With patience.  
You just had to try a little harder.

You barely winced when Michael grabbed you from behind your legs: his huge hands left a hot trail along their climb to your butt. He groped it again, squeezed it, a spark of electricity ran through your legs, and he pulled you closer, until he almost pushed you against his chest. His eyes were fixed on yours, his warm breath on your skin. His hands slowly left your ass and grabbed the edge of his mask. You couldn't hold back a slight, scared moan, the memories of that night still etched in your mind. He rolled up his mask, showing first his strong chin, then his soft lips, the tip of his nose, and then, smoothly, he pulled away his mask, revealing his entire face, partially hidden only by his long messy hair. He was still attractive and his eyes still ferocious and affectionate. Piercing. Intense. Something glistened beyond his pupils and his gaze alone, like an enormous, heavy presence, filled the entire room, radiating an undeniable, reverential sense of authority.

You didn't dare move in front of him, you didn't dare even breathe. Until he, barely brushing your arm, broke that dreadful spell. He grabbed your hand and brought it to his mouth, he put two of your fingers inside, licking them carefully for a few seconds; when they were completely covered in his saliva, he pulled them out and slipped your hand between your legs, pushing it and holding it against your pussy. Then he changed position, placing the palm of his hand on the back of yours, his fingers on yours, still moistened by his saliva, and curled them towards your entrance. His gaze, still piercing but with a strange, unfamiliar glint of challenge, didn't peel off of your incredulous eyes even for a moment. He must have read the confusion in your gaze, so, with a slight tilt of his head, he slowly started rubbing your palm against your pussy. And he paused.

You finally understood: he wanted you to masturbate in front of him.

You felt puzzled, embarrassed, but it didn't matter what you felt. You were the one sitting in the back seat. You had to obey.

With uncertainty, you started to move your fingers along your clitoris, massaging gently and pressing on your entrance. It felt so strange, so wrong to you. So far away from you. It was absurd that you couldn't even remember how to masturbate yourself. Michael took his hand from yours and remained seated looking at you, relaxed. You continued to touch yourself in front of him, your embarrassment awakened the deep uneasiness that you were so desperately trying to stifle, your mind begged to get you wet as soon as possible, but you felt you couldn't. You couldn't get excited in those conditions, there was no arousal. Panic began to creep into your mind, you would have displeased him, he could have punished you. You tried to keep calm, you could still do it. And you continued to rub impatiently, you helped yourself by pressing with the other hand and, moving your hips, you kept rubbing up against yourself.

Satisfied with your commitment, Michael returned to grope your ass, holding you close to him, his fingers plunged harder into your flesh as he idly followed each movement of your hips; he squinted his eyes as he softly licked your skin, before reopening and boring them back into yours. His unsettling, dangerous gaze still seemed to hold that strange spark of challenge as it was piercing you expectantly. His hands pulled the skin of your ass taut, widening your pussy and you moaned: if only he had been there to fill your emptiness, it would have been easier. You were in a hurry to get aroused but all you got was frustration in front of your inability to completely fulfill his will. You closed your eyes, tried to relax, to grind more on your fingers, but you couldn't get the result you wanted; maybe your fingers weren't big enough, weren't long enough. They weren't his fingers. The position itself was uncomfortable, it made everything more complicated. And then, there was that deep fear of angering him. You were so weak before him, so powerless. You needed to tell him something, anything, just to obtain his forgiveness. You begged him to be merciful.

"Michael, please... I-- I can't do it.. on my own."

Pathetic. You weren't even able to masturbate. Humiliated. You could only sit in the back seat.  
Michael, however, didn't seem annoyed, a flicker flashed behind his cold, gloating eyes, that same strange feeling of challenge. His head seemed to lean more towards you, as if he were carefully listening, and remained motionless. Perhaps, despite your failure, you had just offered him something to his liking. He reached out to grab your hand again, the kindness in his warm touch was almost comforting. He wasn't disappointed. He gently pulled your fingers out of your pussy, bringing them in front of him. He inhaled deeply the scent imprinted on your fingers, from under his eyelashes his eyes betrayed a delightful pleasure. He was intoxicated, rapt. He groaned and ran his tongue between your fingers, slowly, savoring every little droplet of you. You did get wet after all. He completely licked your essence, cleaning your fingers, sucking them and kissing your fingertips before moving your hand away from his mouth to rest it on his shoulder. His eyes were again fixed on yours, the expression of bliss gave way to that strange sparkle of defiance, even if it seemed a little less fiery. He grabbed your other hand and placed it on his other shoulder. You held your position, you had no idea what he wanted you to do, until one of his arms wandered behind your back, hugging you and holding you firmly against his chest, while the other hand, slipping from behind your thigh, raised your leg and he laid it on the bed next to his side. You finally understood what he had in mind, so you clung to him and lifted the other leg, helping him in positioning you on his lap.

He adjusted your position, moving your pelvis on his thighs, so that your body couldn't press right on his groin, his erection, more than visible, stood out in front of your abdomen; then he pressed you from behind your back so that you bent forward. From this new position, his face could move into the slope of your neck and rub against your skin; then he inhaled deeply, breathing in your scent for long. You closed your eyes, tried to relax. You were the passenger.  
Michael moved his hands back to your ass, kneading and squeezing it nicely, his teeth gently grazing the skin of your neck; then his tongue licked and his lips pressed, he sucked greedily, sending shivers up and down your stomach. He nibbled your earlobe and then moved just below your ear, biting and making you jump. He clenched his teeth on your skin without hurting too much and he sucked stronger, your body was writhing because of the spasms he was causing you.

A hand traveled from your butt to your head, his fingers twisted into your hair and you waited for him to harshly pull at any moment. You wouldn't have opposed it. But his hand didn't pull. His fingers lingered in your hair, gently massaging your scalp, while his mouth kissed and sucked the skin of your neck, his breath warm and panting. His hand in your hair pulled gently, so that you showed your face to his languid eyes, the twinkle of challenge was still flashing from behind his pupils, but he was still gentle. He hadn't pulled violently, he hadn't wanted to hurt you. He never did it before. You just had to relax.  
Without ever taking his eyes off yours, Michael grabbed the slider of his zipper and pointed it at you; you, so obedient, instantly nodded and moved one of your hands from his neck to it, grabbed it and, panting and with a knot in your stomach, you tugged it down, revealing his boxer shorts; as soon as you started lifting your hand so as to put it back around his neck, Michael stopped you by the wrist, letting your hand linger on his hard cock: you winced and you felt it twitching from inside his boxer briefs. It was hard and throbbing. It was like fire under your palm. Your eyes traveled up to his, already fixed on yours, his languid gaze didn't hide the sparkle of challenge. He guided your hand on his boxer shorts and you pulled the waistband down, allowing him to grab his hungry cock and pull it out himself; you arranged his underwear better under his dick, so that the garment couldn't cover it again.

Then he untangled his hand from your hair and, without ever taking his eyes off yours, he slipped it between your legs. You couldn't avoid jolting at the delicate sensation, his hot fingers against your wet pussy. He gently caressed you, slightly pinched your clit, making you moan, and started massaging and teasing you deliberately; his gaze still had that strange flash of challenge that alone was enough to keep you in line. His fingers slipped inside you and you gasped, the intimacy of your position, the whole situation: every sensation was somehow terribly amplified. He curled his fingers, pressed against your sweet spot and shoved them deeper: he always knew where and how to touch you.  
Even better than you.  
You dragged back your hand from his underwear to his shoulder, wrapping it around his neck, and you clung to him with more strenght; your hips started to move in sync with his fingers, the feeling of warmth and arousal already lurked in your depths. Instinctively you glanced at his cock: it was huge, hard, his red and swollen tip glistening with precum, his hand was holding it tightly between his fingers. Even too tight. It seemed almost painful. You returned to look at his eyes, they were a little loopy but still with that strange determination set on the bottom: why was he holding back? Why wasn't he using his cock inside you instead of his fingers? He seemed to read the questions in your confused gaze and pushed his fingers harder, making you moan again. You closed your eyes and, panting, you followed his movements, the pressure building up quickly inside you, and you knew you would have been soon peeking at the edge. Michael's fingers kept squeezing you from the inside and rubbing your sweet spot, his movements delightfully tickled your clit. The pressure was growing fast, you were so close and you almost needed it: suddenly, those brief seconds of pure carnal pleasure were your most important goal. It didn't matter that you would have felt terrible once you had regained your senses; all you wanted were those moments of pure pleasure that would have helped you releasing your tension, that would have clouded your mind, making your thoughts stop for a bit. You would have finally had a little respite. Just a little peace.

Michael continued to masturbate you relentlessly, his long, large fingers abused your depths, your clit stimulated against his palm, and your walls began to tighten around him; the pressure was getting stronger, almost ready to explode. You kept grinding against his fingers and you finally felt ready; you pushed harder on him, eager, needy, but as you clung to him with more strenght, ready to be overwhelmed by your orgasm, Michael suddenly pulled his fingers out and both his hands quickly grabbed your ass, locking it in position, so that you couldn't possibly even rub on his thighs. You groaned almost desperately, you needed that orgasm, that short respite that would have turned your mind off for a little. Breathless and frustrated, you faintly begged him and he froze, his attention completely focused on your voice, on your words. His hands let go of your ass and grabbed you by the waist, pulling you away enough for him to look better at your face. Your dazed gaze met his, penetrating, watchful, sharp. He was listening to you. He was waiting for something. The flash of challenge shone with expectation. You felt confused, your frustration increased: he wasn't even masked, it should have been easier to understand what he wanted, yet you couldn't. You had been obedient, cooperative. You had behaved well and had just begged him to finish you. Why was he mocking you so much, then? What else did he expect you to do?

His gaze pierced through you, deeper and deeper, your eyes desperately searched for a sign, anything. If only he spoke, it would be simpler. He was even capable of it, why did he persist in remaining silent?!  
You looked at his eyes, tried to reach him, and you stammered:

"Michael, please, I--"

He approached, almost as he wanted to be sure to accurately hear your every single word, his lips sligthly parted, his alert and sharp gaze was totally fixed on you. He wanted you to say something, but you had no idea what. Distraught and helpless and with the burning need still throbbing between your legs, you surrendered and sighed with disarming sincerity:

"--I don't understand."

He closed his mouth, his gaze returned cold and inscrutable as if he had put on his expressionless mask. He glanced over his shoulder and grabbed one of your hands; his gaze returned to your eyes and then he slowly moved your hand from behind his neck to his hard cock. The defying glint flashed again from behind his eyes. Deeply staring at you, without even blinking, he made you grab his cock, your fingers wrapped it with a frighteningly automatic gesture: it was huge, hard, pulsating. He needed you as much as you needed him, yet he was restraining himself. With his hand on yours, Michael gestured you to stroke it, his burning eyes, bored into yours, were enough to make you obey without a second thought. And, despite your confusion and frustration, your hand got down to work, completely at his service.  
Soon after you started stroking it, Michael's eyelashes lowered, his breathing became heavier, unmistakable contentment at your commitment. You kept squeezing and stroking it, his body more and more twitching in pleasure, his hands, holding lazily your waist, allowed him to buck more easily his hips against your hand.

Noticing the bliss on his face, a part of you wondered if you should have sped up your pace or waited, the simple consideration of still wanting to cum thanks to him made you feel that disgusting lump in your stomach that you tried to smother again. And your hand speeded up its pace. Michael gasped again, louder, his eyes bored into yours again, you knew he was close; then a hand left your waist and pressed you from behind your head, bending it forward, so that your face was facing his cock. You opened your eyes wide, you were exactly aligned on his tip, so full and red. It made you deeply uncomfortable, but you certainly couldn't stop yourself now or - worse - refuse to go ahead: it was you in the back seat, he was the driver.

Leveraging on this desperate thought of survival, you swallowed and resigned yourself to Michael's will. Your hand speeded up, without hesitation, without indecision, you remembered his pace every time he came inside you.  
You closed your mouth just in time when his first, thick spurt of cum splashed straight on your face, forcing you by reflex to close your eyes, too. Your face remained still and contracted, Michael's big hand was still firmly pressed behind your head, his grunts filling your ears. Another hot stream hit your neck, your hand, already covered with his essence, didn't stop nor deflect its aim. Michael grunted and panted again, but he sounded far from you; you were so far, like in a trance, so far that you didn't get that he had already finished, until his own hand grabbed yours, making you snap to reality and, guiding you, gradually made your hand slow down.

He let his hand rest on yours again, your head still down despite not being forced into that position anymore; you opened your eyes again and saw a trail of cum dripping from your face onto your hand, still wrapped in Michael's. With the other hand he lifted you by the chin and looked at you for a long time, enraptured, his gaze, dizzy with pleasure, no longer showed any glow of challenge. He tilted his head slightly to one side and stood looking at you, contemplating you; your semi-dull gaze was lost in his doting eyes for endless moments. Or maybe it was minutes. You were too disconnected to exactly know, but then you started to feel his cum dry on your skin, almost itchy. You blinked, and only then you realized that Michael was putting you back in a standing position in front of him.

The frustration and the feeling of filth inside you led you to the only kind of consolation that you could find: after all, it was better if his cum ended up ON your body, rather than INSIDE it, right?

You had almost forgotten that cursed need that still lurked between your legs, until you felt a bead of your own essence slip between your folds. Instinctively, you squeezed your thighs together in a mild attempt to stop that liquid and, perhaps, to feel a little relief. But Michael didn't like it. Quickly he pressed a hand between your thighs, so as to keep them open, and he stared you straight in the eyes, scaring and freezing you instantly. You felt even more confused but obviously you didn't dare rebel. Catching once again your submissiveness, Michael, still standing between you and the bed, relaxed his position, tucked his softened cock into his boxer shorts and shrugged the sleeves of his jumpsuit off his shoulders, tying them loosely around his waist. Then he approached a side of the bed, pulled up the covers and came back to you, still standing and motionless, with your face still stunned and covered with his cum. He bent down on you and, crawling his arms under your naked back and thighs, lifted you up and carried you to the side of the bed, making you lie on your back. He slid his arms out from under your body and, with his back to you, he sat down next to you; you saw him retrieve his mask at the foot of the bed to put it on the nightstand, he removed his boots and, adjusting himself better, he laid down next to you, reached out to the blankets by your side and dragged them back up on both of you. Then he crawled closer to you and, caging you in his strong arms and settling his face on your hair, he sighed softly and closed his eyes.

Your gaze peeled off from his relaxed face and looked up at the ceiling; his dried cum pulled your skin, but you should have waited the next day to finally wash yourself. He wanted you to sleep with him like this: naked and marked. You couldn't help it. You thought back to what had just happened, to that strange look, to that silent request that you didn't understand. What did he exactly want from you? Why had he prevented you from having an orgasm that he himself had almost caused you? He always liked to make you cum, it made him feel more powerful, while you became weaker and weaker. Probably, he was just mocking you, humiliating you, but a part of you didn't feel fully convinced this was the explanation. At least, his cum wasn't inside your body.  
After all, he had been kind, hadn't he?

-

When you woke up, alone and naked in bed, your first thought would have been to wash yourself, if it weren't for the stinging cramps that pressured in your lower belly. You knew that pain all too well and you almost hesitated to look for confirmation, for fear of being disappointed. In the last few days, in fact, you had already had some weak pangs, but you had kept your expectations very low. Today, however, it felt different. The pain was much stronger and the heat in your belly wasn't lying. You slipped a finger between your legs: it showed up wet and covered in blood. You really just got your period. It hardly seemed possible, considering Michael's habits. You sighed in relief and, getting up, you were even grateful to feel that pain. Finally a slightly less nauseous awakening.

You washed your face of Michael's residues, you grabbed your panties from the floor so as to wash them later and then you took a clean pair and the makeshift bands that you got from your t-shirt; you wrapped part of it on the seat of the clean panties: you certainly didn't want to ask Michael to get some pads, hence you would have adapted for a few days, washing the bandages and alternating them as better you could. You hadn't so much to do, afterall, you would have kept your mind busy for a while. Another sharp twinge made you bend over and, without further hesitation, you sought relief in a hot shower.

When you were done, you wore your panties with your uncomfortable makeshift pad and glanced at the meal on the tray: you tried to eat, but soon you needed to lay down: your belly hurt too much and the pangs stunned you and prevented you from finding relief in any position. You curled up on the bed, pressing the crumpled blankets against your abdomen, hoping to somehow ease the pain. You squirmed and twisted for a long time, but the pain didn't stop and, the more time passed, the more you felt exhausted, until finally sleep made you lose consciousness.

When you opened your eyes it was dark again: time had become such an absurd, nonsensical concept for you. But at least, apart from a slight numbness, the acute pain was completely faded. You got up cautiously, hoping to not get blood on your panties, and took a look at the pad: there was blood on both the fabric and part of your thigh, but much less than you expected. You washed that bandage, wrapped a clean one and, after finishing the meal that you hadn't been able to eat hours earlier, you undressed, entered the shower again and positioned the showerhead so that the jet of water hit only the lower half of your body. You weren't going to linger too long, but the truth was that the water running down your body was a kind of consolation. It gave you the delusion of feeling less dirty, as if it could wash the filth off your soul. And your mind almost went blank under the rush of water. You closed your eyes and waited for that stream to drag away your thoughts first, then all those nauseating sensations that swirled in your stomach and, finally, your own self. Or at least, what was left of your own self.

And just as you finally started to feel a slight feeling of lightness, two hands came from behind your naked body, grabbing your hips. Startled, you opened your eyes, that slight sensation of lightness blew up like the bursting of a soap bubble; the darkness, deeper and heavier than before, emerged again, completely overwhelming you.  
You inhaled deeply and, closing your eyes, exhaled. The image of you in the passenger seat.

Michael fondled your hips, his fingers were tracing circles, his touch even delicate.  
You stood still, the water was still running. Michael's hands wrapped around your waist, drawing you closer to his torso, his hot breath on your cheek. A shudder went through your body and you focused on keeping calm. So as to not resist him. His hands traveled upward, slowly, until he cupped your breasts and gently groped them. You winced and Michael slowly lowered his head, until the nose of his mask pressed against the side of your neck. And, as always, he slowly breathed in your scent. Another shiver ran down your spine, making you tingle between your legs. Michael dragged one hand away from you just to grab the edge of his mask and roll it just over the tip of his nose and then it came back to you, grabbing your hip; his grip was firm, but it didn't mean to hurt. His lips grazed against your neck, slowly dragged along your jaw and moved away, allowing his eyes to be able to look at your face. Then he came closer and planted a tender kiss on your cheek.

Was he being even affectionate, now?

Even more nausea turned your stomach upside down, but you imagined that the water was washing it away. You tried to relax again, the water continued to pour down from your belly along your legs, you let your body lean into Michael's embrace. You felt him rolling his hips and grinding against your ass, while his hand were still gently pressing you up against him.  
You didn't resist.  
His hand slid lower down your groin, his fingers twirling your pubic hair. You barely turned your face towards him and his mouth kissed your cheek again; then he moved under your earlobe and nibbled it, making you slightly jump, your body shivering in expectation. He barely moved away, you heard him first tug his zip down, then his underwear, and he grabbed you by the hips, bending you forward and keeping your ass pressed flush against his hot crotch, his boiling cock twitching on your skin. You quickly reached the walls of the shower as a support, accidentally closing the water tap and, knowing already what was about to happen, you arched your ass and spread your legs. Michael panted and ground idly against you: his cock was already hard and hot against your wet pussy, you couldn't ignore the warm sensations he was giving you. He let his shaft slip between your folds, teasing your entrance with his fat tip, enjoying all your faintest moans and whimpers.

Leaving his cock erect and twitching against your pussy, Michael put a hand between your legs in search of your clit: he panted and his cock twitched again as soon as his fingers glided on your slick hole. Noticing how your body was much faster than your mind in preparing to welcome his attentions felt so disheartening. The river of thoughts began to murmur inside you and you knew you had to silence it; his husky voice was already repeating that word in your mind, an endless, painful loop, pure terror flowed through your veins knowing what monstrosity may be lurking behind that apparent fondness. Your body was getting ready faster than your mind and you told yourself it was better this way. You had to hold on until someone would break down the door and free you. With your subjugation, it would have been easier. He could be kind, hurt you less. You just had to silence your mind and let yourself be guided towards those disgusting, cursed moments of bliss.

Michael stroked your clit and shortly after slipped two fingers inside you, curling and pushing them, your grip stronger against the tiles. His other hand grabbed your breast, groped it and then pulled you back to him, panting in your ear. He kept rubbing against you, his fingers teasing your pussy and you felt more and more anxious and warm. Michael was masturbating you again, with fervor, almost as if it was important to him, and, after brushing his lips on your cheek, he breathed you deeply. Slowly. And then, he did it again. And again.  
Until he suddenly stopped.

With a mild hesitation, Michael moved his face away from yours and pulled his fingers out of your pussy. You opened your eyes in confusion. Then he grabbed you by the waist and turned you in front of him. He stared at you, his mask unrolled and returned to cover his face as he closed in on you, continuing to sniff you. Your eyes remained wide and you shut your mouth, you didn't dare utter a single word. Michael sniffed your neck carefully but he didn't seem satisfied; he peeled off again and looked better at you, his inquiring eyes carefully scrutinized your body. Until he noticed his own hand and tilted his head.

He brought it close to his nose and sniffed again, even if there was no need, really: the smell he had sniffed, in fact, stained his fingers red. He remained motionless for a few moments, then his body stiffened, while his head slowly rose, the black slits of his mask targeted your face and allowed you to see the eyes hidden behind. His gaze, threatening and penetrating, pierced through you mercilessly, and a shiver of irrational fear ran through your whole body. As a puff of air escaped from his mask, a hand grabbed you harshly by the neck, choking your instant scream deep in your throat. His fingers pressed violently into your delicate skin, allowing new bruises to form. Your eyes moistened, your confused and pleading gaze desperately asked him for an explanation. Michael, with a threatening grunt, put his blood-stained fingers in front of your desperate, watery eyes and you felt confused for a few moments, until you seemed to understand; trembling in fear, you touched his hand around your neck so as to beg him to loosen his grip and let you speak. Michael, still furious, released some of the pressure on your neck, and you, coughing, managed to stammer:

"It's all right, Michael. I have- I didn't hurt myself, I'm not injured."

But Michael grunted menacingly, his fingers clenched around your neck again.

"Please... I-It's normal, Michael!" His fingers clenched harder, your tears poured down, your voice almost totally strangled: "I got my period!"

The hand paused and then slightly loosened its grip, the mask didn't grunt. You took that as a good sign and tried to calm him.

"Do you know what it is?" Michael remained motionless, his hand was just holding you in place. You gathered yourself, he waited.

"It means that--" you tried to simplify the concept. "If I'm not pregnant, I bleed for a few days every month." His head tilted to the side, but somehow you didn't feel reassured, as his gesture sent shivers of dread down your spine. "It's.. biology. I promise you I'm telling the truth. I always keep my promises."

The hand around your neck betrayed the slightest flicker and you heard him heavily exhaling. He glanced quickly at your face again and then his gaze dropped down. The hand around your neck didn't waver, but his breath became laboured. A single drop of blood dripped from your legs onto the shower tray and Michael puffed again. His masked face returned to yours and, almost without you noticing, Michael had already thrown you on his shoulder so as to carry you out of the shower. With few quick steps, he reached the bed, dropped you on it without grace and one of his hands was already pressing firmly on your chest: a clear sign that you weren't allowed to move a single muscle. You swallowed and nodded and he, with one last, guarded look, freed your chest, grabbed you by the waist and pulled you to the foot of the bed, letting your legs dangle past the mattress. Another gasp puffed from under his mask and his hands pressed on your thighs, spreading and keeping them open. And, positioning himself better in front of your exposed pussy, he knelt.

You couldn't help contracting your muscles, embarrassed and tense, but you tried your best to not move, letting him do whatever he wanted. You glanced at your legs and Michael was still there, motionless, watching your exposed pussy. He seemed so focused, almost rapt. You felt a drop slip between your folds and Michael wheezed. Then he parted better your labia and a finger slipped towards your entrance, collecting the string of blood that had just spilled. You couldn't help flinching, his touch tickled your oversensitive pussy. Michael instinctively pressed on your legs so as to prevent you from closing them and you shut your eyes, hoping to not have other automatic spasms that could have annoyed him.

Yeah. But it was no use.

His finger brushed again against your pussy, running from your entrance to your clit, and your body jumped again. Michael exhaled loudly, his fingers in your leg began to tighten, you closed your eyes in fear, you clenched your teeth, you felt watched for several, tense moments. Then he let go of your leg and the muffled sound of his mask on the floor was enough to make your eyes shoot open again, while your heart started to beat wildly. You felt his breath, clear and warm, on your exposed pussy, another string of blood slipped down but this time it was caught by a short, fluid lick of the tip of Michael's tongue. You jumped and twisted again, it was all too intense to allow you to stand still, your pleading eyes already begging him for forgiveness. But the only reaction Michael had was a threatening grunt as his piercing eyes gave you one last, dangerous warning.

You sobbed, aware that you couldn't obey his order.  
Michael's eyes returned between your legs, his hands kept pressing so as to keep them wide open in front of him, just for him, and this time his whole tongue licked from your entrance to your swollen clit. You moaned and instinctively your legs pressed against his hands, his grip remained steady like steel. You begged Michael to forgive you, you tried to explain that there was nothing you could do about it, but he grunted again and his fingernails dug into the flesh of your thighs. You sought again his gaze, begging him, but his eyes were already fixed on yours, that sparkle of challenge had returned to twinkle beyond the threat. Without ever taking his eyes off yours, Michael pressed his lips against your pussy, his nose bumping into your clit, and he penetrated you with his tongue.  
Your body instinctively wiggled, trying to get away, your hands pushed against his face and you sobbed again, terrified and helpless. You begged him to stop, to forgive you, you tried to say that you couldn't control your reactions, but he showed no empathy. He gave you another threatening look and his hands let go of your legs and grabbed your wrists with such force that they would have left bruises; crying, you kept asking him for forgiveness.  
Holding tightly your wrists in his hands, Michael repositioned himself between your thighs, his body was enough to keep your legs open.

He leaned in, his long hair was already tickling your skin, and his tongue slipped deeper into your hole, eager to taste more blood straight from the source, his nose tapped on your clit each time his mouth flattened and pushed against your pussy just to let his tongue dive deeper into you. Every nerve in your body was so set alight that even his breath on your skin was enough for you to writhe even before he touched you. His tongue came out and its tip swiped over your clit, licking from bottom up and making you writhe and gasp again. And then again, with the same, brutal precision, Michael repeated the same motion, over and over, electrifying you, each spasm made your muscles contract in desperate need. His tongue pressed on your hood and you nearly screamed, the burning sensations were too strong, too intense. Then his mouth completely wrapped around your clit, his soft, wet lips made your head spin, and he sucked hard; your thighs couldn't decide between clenching around his head or opening more, your wrists struggled to free themselves, but all you got was being tugged closer and closer to Michael's face.

His tongue whipped your swollen clit and then flattened against your entrance, from where more blood was oozing again. He slowly licked across your pussy and again pushed his tongue into you; then, he used his grip on your wrists to keep you pressed flat against his face, his tongue was tapping you while his nose was grinding against your clit. It didn't matter how much you tried to squirm, to twist: Michael held you firmly in position, completely helpless throughout his torture.

His tongue whirled, his mouth pressed, wrapping his soft lips around your labia, and then he sucked again. Ruthlessly. Eagerly. His challenging and sharp gaze didn't hide the pleasure he felt in hearing your messed mix of moans and screams, your every sensation was so intense that you couldn't tell if Michael's torture was more pleasant or painful. But still, before you knew, you were already grinding against his face.  
Michael's tongue licked you again, then came back to lap at your clit and you, rubbing against him, begged him again, but you weren't sure whether you were begging him to forgive your jolts or to keep on going. He barely grunted as he slowly moved away from your pussy just to look into your eyes again; completely stunned and panting, you opened your eyes wide not so much for the blood smeared across his face, but for his gaze: piercing, burning, all-consuming. That was the gaze of a bloodthirsty predator. You looked too appetizing and he was starving. The sparkle of challenge was shining from behind his dilated pupils and the trepidation he was radiating was almost tangible. You were back at the pivotal moment, just like last night, before he let you jerk him off. He wanted something from you, something in particular, but he didn't seem to want to wait any longer for you to understand it.

Without ever taking his eyes off yours, Michael lowered himself between your legs again and the tip of his tongue brushed once again on your electrified clit. Another twist of your body, another plea, but his gaze, fixed on your eyes, didn't even flinch. He kissed your clit and then pushed your hood back, making you whine and twist more: it felt good and painful at the same time and you felt too stimulated. He knew. He kept staring at you, cold-blooded, deliberate, challenging. Another slow, merciless swipe on your clit dragged another heated whine from your lips, and he did it again. And again. The wild twinkle in his gaze never left your eyes and you felt so desperate and in need. He continued to lick your clit, mercilessly, again and again, each lash made you clench down and jerk, your pleading more and more desperate. You wanted to be over with this sadistic torture, you wanted - no, you needed - to end it. To chase your own end.

Then Michael stopped and slowly stood up, still holding you firmly by the wrists, his fully hard cock, dangling off of his briefs, twitched with excitement. You followed his movements, sitting down and pushing to drag you higher on the bed and lie down, while he, getting on the bed, crept between your legs. Your mind, hormonal and lust-driven, was almost screaming how much you needed him to finish you. He pinned both wrists over your head and held them tight in one hand, freeing his other one so as to grab his cock. You looked at him expectantly, your gaze begged him to not leaving you unfinished this time. His hand squeezed his cock hard, too hard, his knuckles turned white.

He was holding back again.

He needed you as much as you needed him, yet he held back. His lust was evident, he no longer wanted to dance around it, you knew he wanted to plunge into you, especially now that you were bleeding. But this clearly had to happen on his own terms. He wanted something in particular from you, something more and you did everything to understand it.  
You begged him again, but he had no reaction. His fiery gaze pierced you to the core. He wanted more than simple, mere pleas. You gasped again, other flashbacks of that dreadful night flashed before your eyes. And you remembered how much he liked to have control over you, how much he wanted to own you.

"Michael, please..I--"

His face moved closer to yours, his eyes widened. You were his prey. Subjugated. You were alive because he allowed you to. You were his.

You trembled and panted, fear and arousal reduced you to a complete mess, totally dependent on the man above you. Yes: dependent.

"..Please, Michael ... I n-need i--"

He interrupted you, quickly approaching your face and pressing his nose on yours, while his dark growl vibrated on your lips and shook you to your very core:

"What?"

It wasn't a real question. The blood froze in your veins and, without a second thought, you immediately replied:

"You, Michael! Please, I need you!"

You felt something inside you completely crumble and everything around seemed to be suddenly floating. So true and so wrong. So painful. The spark of challenge in Michael's eyes vanished as soon as you finished saying those damned words, his eyelashes lowered on his gaze, now filled with his immense triumph. And in few, eternal moments you realized that there was only dust left of the rock you once were. And just like the dust, all you could do was to get blown away. You slowly closed your eyes, ready to feel overwhelmed and wiped away by the storm and, just as your vision darkened, Michael trapped you in an intense kiss, his lips pressed on yours: he was smiling, pleased and fulfilled, eager to use you to satisfy his thirst. You didn't resist, you didn't whine. This time you had really chosen to be the passenger, and as a passenger you couldn't drive, you needed your driver. Michael's tongue shoved its way into your mouth and swirled around your tongue. All you could do was let yourself be guided, if you wanted to survive: subjugation was the only way you could hope to somehow get back your freedom.  
His hand lined his cock against your entrance, his tip throbbed between your folds, his breath entered your throat. All you could do was let yourself be guided and wait, even if it meant to silently put yourself aside and let him feel necessary.

And slowly you looked back at the man who was fervently kissing you.

His eyes were half-closed, languidly lost in yours, and you tried to relax more, so as to get blown away by the storm without much suffering, so as to pause your mind. He wasn't going to hurt you, he wasn't going to carve you like a Halloween pumpkin; this time he would have even satisfied you, you would have had your disgusting seconds of cursed pleasure that helped you so much to empty your mind, to feel nothing else. You just wanted him to be nice to you. And you abandoned yourself to that kiss. You wrapped your tongue around his, gently, without daring too much. You were the subjugated one.

And you finally connected the dots.

His hand left his cock pressed against your entrance and, resting on his forearm, Michael twisted his fingers through your hair, keeping your head still, even if there was really no need. And without ever breaking your kiss, he rolled his hips and pushed fully inside you. His cock slowly opened you, inch by inch, your walls were still raw from menstruation, but you couldn't hesitate. You whimpered in his mouth as the nausea surfaced in your stomach and the flashbacks of that dreadful night flashed again before your eyes.

Michael gently filled your depths and you followed his movements, welcoming him and rubbing yourself against him. He moaned, he liked it. He always liked it when you were cooperative. That night, he had forced you to welcome him, to want him. But tonight you had chosen to want him, it was you who told him you needed him.  
Nauseous whirls swirled in your stomach, you closed your eyes, you tried to relax, to let go. Having said it out loud has been as painful as enlightening. Revelatory.  
And suddenly, you understood everything. Your mind wasn't silent as you thought it would have happened.

You had to understand, you had to accept.

The hand that still held your bruised and aching wrists finally let go and slipped under your thigh, looking for your ass. You raised your pelvis with the sole purpose of facilitating his movements - you were so obedient; his hand squeezed your flesh with satisfaction and then returned to the mattress to support his weight. Now you weren't terrified, you weren't resisting. Now you could finally see things for what they were. For what they had always been. And, most importantly, to finally accept them. All in all, it was so simple, and it had been so since your first, damned time together.

Michael voluptuously rubbed his cock deep inside you; then he pulled out, leaving only the tip inside, and he broke away from your lips just to be able to take a look at his cock covered with your blood. It twitched, he gasped again, your pussy sputtered and he plunged again into you, lazily, squeezing every single drop of pleasure from your body.

That night, in your bed, you were too unaware and terrified to be able to understand the sick and hideous meaning behind his actions. He had planned for who knows how long your first time together, but your initial resistance had forced him to take you brutally. The cause hasn't been only his inexperience or the urgency to get his release as soon as possible. He was punishing you because your behavior and reactions weren't what he wanted, weren't how he had imagined and planned them to be for so long.

Michael continued to dive inside you, your panting breaths filled the room. You pressed against him, your pelvic bones stuck together, your arousal grew. As soon as he hit deeper, rubbing his fat tip against your walls, you moaned and your hands gently touched his strong arms, his tense muscles were radiating immense heat from under his jumpsuit. He slightly tugged your head, pulling you by the hair, and you were surprised to notice that he didn't want to hurt you. There was no brutality in that gesture. You were almost grateful.

Michael's breathing was warm on your skin and you, taking another deep breath, retraced what had happened to you. During your confinement, the chain around your wrist wasn't meant to simply keep you from escaping: it was a reminder, a possibility of choice. You could choose to continue to oppose or change your attitude. And in fact, when your insults ceased, the chain was no longer clipped around your wrist. You had made the right choice, the one HE thought was right, and so he rewarded you.  
Then one night, you tried to kill him and run away, and it was clear that your instincts of rebellion needed to be tamed once for all, so he chose to humiliate you and manipulate you in a deeper way. Horrendously deeper. You even begged him for forgiveness, you were certainly on the right path. On what HE thought to be the right path.

While your mind kept displaying the painful succession of your memories, your head got bent to the side and he dove into the crook of your neck, greedily breathing in your scent, his hips rolling and pushing inside you. Gently. Voluptuously. He shifted his weight to his side, allowing one of his hands to slip between your legs and caress your scar. Your dizzy gaze wandered around the room, Michael's head sank more into your neck. Your eyes looked at the door, his hair tickled your face and your mind wandered again.

The mark carved in your inner thigh, his attentions, his doting gaze, his most recent semblance of humanity, even the room in which you were confined: everything led to a single, hideous explanation.  
Michael readjusted his position and you opened more your legs, every inch of him filled you delightfully, the pressure in your abdomen increased. His thrusts set the pace of your breathing and the pleasure gradually grew in your depths, despite the nausea that, resurfacing and stirring in your stomach, let your thoughts run.

Your room wasn't just an unsettling reproduction of part of your daily life, the creepy dollhouse for his favorite puppet. The painful humiliations and unexpected kindnesses towards you weren't just twisted concepts of punishment and reward. In his sick mind, that was his way of goading you into accepting to live his own personal, perverse view of your life together. You together, as a couple. And the incision in your inner thigh was like a "love" token, like a ring sealing your union.

You startled and screamed right after Michael bit your neck more violently and sucked, your hands clung to his arms.

Surely he got pleasure in humiliating you, in taking advantage of your vulnerabilities, but it was now evident that all he was doing was aiming especially to brainwash you, until you would have handed yourself over to him. By exploiting your pain, your despair, your fear and your natural need for human warmth, he would have manipulated you in an increasingly subtle and unnoticeable way, until he would have made you firmly believe you needed him and, finally, reciprocate his sick and perverse love. Once you had devotedly loved him back, he would have finally owned you. Completely.  
And he had almost succeeded.

Michael continued to plunge inside you, with each powerful thrust his cock seemed to impale you and squeeze relentlessly your hot and damp walls. The sharp pain in your neck seemed to burn even if the skin was just softly grazed by his breath. Your half-closed eyes watched as his shoulders moved and contracted every time he intensely pistoned inside you.

The man-shaped creature on top of you concealed something mysterious and dark within itself, an unstoppable force, capable of deciding without any difficulty on life and death with a simple change of pressure of its blade. An indomitable force even for death, without fear. A force that had chosen you, an ordinary person, a perfect nobody: as much as you hated to admit it, a part of you was enraptured and bewitched by that mysterious and dark Force that was Michael Myers.

A shiver shook your soul while the arousal ran through your body again, his huge and hard cock rubbed against your depths; your hands clung to his huge and powerful back as you felt again the nauseating weight in your stomach, but this time you let it cross through you, accepting it. You swallowed and continued to follow Michael's movements, the pressure inside you increased, your body rushed towards the pure pleasure with which Michael promised to reward you for having behaved so well, admitting that you needed him.

And you somehow had even sensed his final aim, long ago. Back then though, you unfortunately refused to accept that he could feel love, even if in such a filthy and perverse form; you wanted to reject the idea that that twisted love was meant for you and that - even worse - you could even reciprocate it; the suffering, the distress, the feelings of guilt and disgust that you felt had led you to deny, deviating you towards the desperate search for other explanations and solutions. Probably even more self-destructive. Your deep fear and suffering were subjugating you, you've always been confused and devastated by all those conflicting emotions that he was so able to unleash inside you and probably he would have induced you to reciprocate him, once he had fully destroyed your mind. But now you were aware of it, you had finally accepted the idea to be unconditionally loved by a psychopath. Now you could try to delude him, hoping to maintain and protect what's left of your mind.

Biting and sucking your bruised neck, Michael hit your sweet spot again, gaining from you another sweet moan; and he hit it again and again, the pressure in your depths getting stronger and ready to explode. He was panting straight into your ear, every single muscle in his body was quivering with pleasure, his scent, strong and virile, filled your nostrils.

Michael was so close to seducing you, you almost fell for it, but somehow, having said those words aloud, as painful as it had been, had torn the veil with which he was dangerously covering your eyes. It was so difficult to resist all this, especially after the countless disgusting things you had already done for him. If only you had wasted less energy in thinking about how wrong and sick all of this was, if only you hadn't allowed him to enter your mind while trying to reach him, to understand him, if only you hadn't been fooled by that disgusting pleasure that he was able to make you feel, by your weaknesses, maybe... No. You couldn't know that the person who was raping you in your own bed that night had this sick and profound obsession with you. You had never even met him. And you knew you needed to stop feeling guilty for what was happening.

Michael kept pushing inside you, his body heat suffocated you, his strong scent intoxicated you. It made you feel oppressed and addicted at the same time. You inhaled deeply, Michael's head moved over your face, his ferocious and affectionate eyes searched for yours, lost in another dimension. Michael's both hands grabbed your face, he wanted your attention. Your vision flickered, your eyes refocused on his. You pulled him to you, hoping he hadn't read your mind. He kissed you again, and, reaching for more support on the bed, he pushed more inside you, his sweetly brutal rotations crashed against your cervix. You wanted more, so as to silence your mind. Michael bit your lower lip and you whimpered. He wanted your attention so you gently kissed him back.

He probably hadn't noticed you had just become aware of his hidden, terrible ultimate purpose, so you had a small advantage. You didn't know how long this farce would have lasted in his mind and if he would continue to manipulate you, but if giving him the "love" he wanted would stop his manipulation and increase your time and chances of survival, then you would have played along.  
Yours was a dangerous choice.

Sooner or later someone would have broken through that door and saved you, it had to happen: and you only had to be able to survive - to REALLY survive - until that crucial moment. You would have let him drive and you, unbeknownst to him, would have first locked everything that was left of you and then you would have hidden it in a dark and remote corner of your mind. You were going to play a smoke and mirrors game with a murderer obsessed with you. You were walking on a thin and dangerously faded line. A deep, primordial fear wrapped around your heart: what if you, trying to hide from him in plain sight, had you ended up losing yourself in the dark? Yours was really a dangerous choice, this was a dangerous game.

Michael continued to fuck you powerfully, your pussy was dripping with your blood diluted by your own liquids. You held him tight, in need, and he, grunting and panting, continued to push, as if he wanted to split you in two. You pushed your hips totally against his and you finally felt the wave start to swell inside you.

It wouldn't have been easy to deceive him and preserve you at the same time, but you had no other choice. You had to let him wander inside you, without resisting and, at the same time, barricade yourself behind that fine line that he should never have discovered. You probably would have gone crazy, or maybe you were already crazy, but that part of you who persisted in wanting to survive had decided that, if you really had to go crazy, at least you would have done it voluntarily, on your own terms, and not because he would have subtly manipulated you. It was indeed a dangerous choice, but you would have gone all the way, even if it would have been the last thing you could have done in your life. Resisting without resisting.  
You threw yourself in search of that dark and remote corner of your mind and followed your body, much more capable than you of accepting Michael. Your clenches became deeper and closer, the wave swelled and rushed, preparing to overwhelm you.

That twisted form of sick affection with which he was feeding you was a lethal poison for your person, but it could also be his only weak spot. You knew that every time you allowed him to enter your mind, another little piece of you fell lost in his abyss: the more he filled you, the more you were emptied. It was a race against time before he could totally undo and nullify you, and all you had was the hope of being found and saved before you disintegrated and vanished into thin air.

You reopened your eyes and before you even really knew it, the wave was already overwhelming you, all-absorbing, unstoppable. Michael growled but didn't even waver, his hot cock swelled inside you and throbbed. You embraced him and your orgasm crossed through you, completely entrancing you and making you see the stars for a few, cursed moments of disgusting pleasure. Your head fell backwards, your eyes rolled behind your eyelids while Michael, riding the clenches of your orgasm around his cock, returned to flood your squashed walls with his warm cum.  
After he had finished, you saw Michael pull out his cock covered with your blood, his dazed gaze looked at it enraptured; then his eyes travelled between your legs, staring at the last, weak spasms of your pussy and his cum, pinkish with your blood, as it slowly slipped out of your abused hole and stained your hair and skin. Gently, he spread the mixture of your liquids along your privates and on your scar and remained still for a while, admiring his obscene masterpiece between your legs.

You closed your eyes in the bliss of your afterglow, hoping to quickly slip into sleep and obliviousness: you needed to recover all necessary mental strength to fight what could have been your last battle. You sighed and the last thing you felt was Michael who, pulling you closer and hugging you, was going to sleep with you.

Yes, you had to resist without resisting, let him roam freely inside you, while remaining subtly barricaded behind that fine line that only you had to be aware of.

Yes: this was really a dangerous game.


	4. Bonds (part 1): Dark Lights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone and welcome back!! Aaaaaah, I've been finally able to update, yayyy!!  
> First of all, FORGIVE ME for the huge delay!! I'm soooooo sorry!! Seriously, I was sure I could have released this chapter much earlier, but a lot of things got in the way, including one of my misjudgements. Basically, according to my sketch, this chapter should have been the last one; what I didn't see coming, though, was that it was already coming out very long and, after thinking about it, I decided that the best thing was to divide this final chapter into two parts: I hope you don't mind!! >.<
> 
> Another fundamental thing: THANK YOU!! Thanks to all those who have read and found the time to leave kudos and comments, thanks to those who wanted to share their emotions and thoughts with me: I appreciated it with all my soul, really!! At the risk of sounding cheesy, I want you to know that every nice gesture you did towards me, even the smallest, has been noticed and appreciated, making me even happier about having chosen to go on this little adventure with you all!! ^-^ <3
> 
> One last thing: to those ones who showed a lot of interest and appreciation for my drawings, as I promised, I added a bunch of them I managed to finish: you can find them following the same link that I provided in notes time ago; I'll copy-paste it here, too! :) I suggest to watch them after reading the whole story so far, this next chapter included, so as to avoid any spoiler! ^^
> 
> https://sta.sh/22cdv1pzdbik?edit=1
> 
> But now, without further ado, here's the first part of the last chapter: I hope you like it!! :> ❤️

Night had fallen once again and, as always, it came with that deep silence that enveloped everything around you.  
Sitting on your bed, you looked next to you: Michael's side of the bed was empty, but he could have arrived at any moment, so you had to be prepared. And, as you had been doing for several nights, listening to that enveloping silence, you grabbed your elastic and started tying your hair in your usual, soft braid.

There was a time when you loved lazing in the silence, so comforting and precious, especially after your busy days: your work, the noises of your neighborhood, the barking of your neighbors' dog, your phone flooded with messages from your best friend, your boyfriend. Your boyfriend. It felt so hard to remember even the sound of his voice and the very thought of his face seemed to clench your heart in a ruthless grip. It was an unbearable pain, it hurt too much. You knew you had to avoid thinking about your past life, it made the endurance of this hell even more difficult and unleashed even more feelings of guilt and nauseating inner struggles: they made the already delicate balance of your secret resistance even more precarious. With your new awareness, in fact, thinking about your past, about your most important bonds and the person you were risked rekindling new fires of rebellion in your heart, the dangerous and useless desire to leave the passenger's seat in order to try to regain the driver's seat.  
It made no sense to blatantly rebel against Michael and your scar was proof of that.

Furthermore, you risked revealing the fine line behind which you had to stay stealthily barricaded. That sudden awareness of yours, like an epiphany, had shown you the truth, preventing you from surrendering to Michael without your knowledge and giving you a chance to save what was left of you, but this small consolation didn't make your smoke and mirrors game any less terrible. It was painful, but most of all dangerous. Too dangerous.  
With a deep, bitter sigh, you pushed away from you everything that was the hazy memory of your past, everything that was your old self, you repeated to yourself that this wasn't the right time to think about it, that one day you would have been able to take back yourself, but not today, not now. The grip slowly loosened and the pain, leaving new gashes in your heart, was getting postponed. Again and again.

You didn't want to renounce it, though. Quite the contrary: no matter how horrendous and devastating it was, that pain was proof that, albeit partially, your mind was still resisting, it hadn't been seduced and totally swallowed by Michael yet. His brainwashing wasn't happening yet. There were moments, the truly dark ones, when his "kindness" towards you, however preferable to the violence you knew he was capable of, seemed to be even more frightening than his evil: considering the state of extreme suffering and confinement you were in, in fact, there were times when his kindness filled your annihilating loneliness, giving you a strange consolation. And it tempted you. Your mind was wavering and clouding and you, even for a little while, let yourself go and indulge in that apparent sweetness of his, it became easier to go along with it. Almost natural.

Alarmingly natural.

Everything seemed easier to the idea of giving up.  
And when you finally realized it, you snapped, you searched for your pain, begging it to help you get it together, to not let your weakness erase your precious fine line. As in a sadistic and exhausting contradiction, that pain was also a slight yet devastating consolation. You accepted it, let it run through you, tear you apart, and then, you softly put it aside, pausing it, so you wouldn't be exposed for too long.  
And slowly, silence returned to your mind.

There was a time when you loved silence. But in this new life of yours it was now simply oppressive, it was a constant reminder of how lonely, lost and imprisoned you were. Suspended in an uncertain and poisonous limbo. Awaiting.  
As always since all this had begun, you looked for a sound in the silence, any sign indicating the presence of someone around, someone who could find you, someone who could save you. Your hope was just a little feeble flame wavering, caught in a dark and violent storm: it would have taken very little to extinguish it, so you had to do your best to not let it happen. Without its feeble light, you wouldn't have had a way to move towards your fine line anymore and you would have been forever lost in the dark, forever lost in the realm of your Boogeyman. When the dark storm threatened more to extinguish your flame, you often relied on small, irrelevant considerations: for example, you wondered how it was possible that, in this decrepit, abandoned house, there could be hot water. Yes, it seemed such a stupid and casual thought, yet it had an effect on you, at least in those moments of dark despair. Thoughts like that were all you had. In fact, you doubted that Michael paid bills in any way, so, unless he had built some rudimentary self-powered boiler, the only explanations you could think of were two: this house perhaps belonged to someone who, for some inexplicable reason, was financing it without however worrying about its maintenance, or - and this was the assumption you preferred - there was some form of illegal connection.

In the darkest moments, a casual thought like this helped you, it made sense. At least in your head.

In fact, if this was really the case, unless the illegal connection was patched to an electric pole or something, then there were more chances that, despite the constant, endless silence that surrounded you, somewhere nearby, someone else lived, someone who, paying their bills, unwittingly powered this house, too. And, therefore, there was the chance that someone would notice, investigate, could trace this house. And that could find you.  
Perhaps, considerations like this were just another desperate form of reassurance your mind created to try to fuel your hope of being found, of being saved. Simple and rational logic to help you surviving longer in your current situation, which had very little of simple and rational. Part of you knew that this could only be a last, desperate form of convincing yourself, what little you had to keep fueling the feeble light of your little flame, but in the darkest moments, in your mind, even a thought like this made sense. And in the dark storm, your little flame kept burning.

You slightly sighed and, sitting on your bed, let the locks of your hair run quickly through your fingers: you were almost done doing your usual, soft braid, exactly like you were used to do a long time ago, every night, before going to sleep. Before all this happened.

You had to do it.

Since your unexpected awareness had ripped the veil in front of your eyes unbeknownst to Michael, in fact, you knew you had a small advantage and that you had to subtly take advantage of it. Even if it meant pretending that you forgot he was your tormentor, even if it meant behaving as if he really was your lover. You knew that his apparent kindness aimed to manipulate you, goading you into reciprocating his sick "love", so now you had to play along and, gradually, satisfy his absurd and extreme form of possessiveness towards you. And here are the slight changes in your behavior. Your small, seemingly insignificant gestures.

The usual nausea stirred in your stomach and an unexpected twinge squeezed your abdomen, that kind of twinge you knew so well: but it couldn't have been your period, it was just over; actually, not only it had lasted much less than usual, but the blood loss itself had been unusual: small and as if it had been very diluted. Stress, probably. Perhaps these twinges were the wake of a menstrual cycle made irregular by the enormous stress you were subjected to every moment of every single day of your captivity. And then, inevitably, you thought back to how Michael seemed to have switched when you had your period. For days he had been showing kindness and care to confuse and tame you, to seduce you; then he had whetted your sexual desire towards him so that you could finally admit on your own that you wanted him. He had brought you to the brink of your orgasm and denied it to you: you had to ask for his help, admit you needed him. After forcing you to masturbate him, he had prevented you from even thinking about finding a possible relief; you had to work with him, depend on him, everything about you had to belong to him. Only he could decide if and when you could feel pleasure.

And then, the blood.

All his apparent kindness vanished in a heartbeat at the sight of the blood dripping from your legs onto the shower tray and you really believed that that night he was gonna break your neck. You were terrified and confused. It took you a while, but then you understood: everything about you had to belong to him. Everything. Your pleasure, too.  
He probably thought you caused yourself that bleeding by masturbating without his knowledge, as he teased you and then purposely prevented your release. He would probably have punished you because you had pleasured yourself in his absence until you even bled, while he was the only one to decide if you could feel pleasure or not. You did it without his permission, while he was depriving himself of having full sex with you. It was an outrage, an insult. A betrayal. You worked with him, you had to follow his plan. You belonged to him, everything about you had to belong to him: your body, your mind, your blood, your pleasure. "Mine.". How many times his deep and husky voice repeated it in your brain.

And then, the discovery of the real cause of your bleeding.

Pure and simple biology. The same biology that had betrayed you since the first night together, making you feel physical pleasure, despite your mind and your feelings screaming the exact opposite; that same biology then came to your rescue. The call of the blood, the idea of marking you, claiming you while bleeding seemed to be too tempting for him, especially considering how long he had been holding back from raping you as he always had. If it weren't for your period, for the lure of blood, he probably wouldn't have felt the urge to break you down, to speed up his manipulation process, and you would have never noticed his plan. You would have ended up believing in his kindness, in his "humanity" and, most likely, you would have completely surrendered and handed over to him.  
But biology, making you bleed just in time and against all odds, had helped you this time, allowing you to discover his ultimate, hidden purpose. For this reason, there were now the slight changes in your behavior. Your small, seemingly insignificant gestures.  
To do so, however, it was important for you to always focus on imagining his point of view - or at least trying - attempting as best you could to identify with him, as hard and exhausting as it was. And so you realized that you couldn't just be obedient and cooperative in front of his advances. It wouldn't have been enough.

Of course. Because lovers do more.

You had to satisfy his faded and sick copy of twisted and deviated love. It was what he wanted from you, wasn't it? The only reason why he was keeping you alive. You would have been his lover, completely his, obedient and loyal. That's why, for example, when you saw him bringing your meal to your room, you never failed to meekly thank him. The first time, he, in front of your new and unexpected gesture, stood still to look at you and, although as usual he had no answer to give you, you knew - you felt - that that simple "Thanks." had gone beyond his wall of impassivity. You shared a strange bond with him by now, you couldn't deny it, and so you often relied on your feelings to try to understand him. But at the same time you had to be cautious, you didn't have to let him suspect. The very idea of being discovered scared the hell out of you, he could be capable of anything. That's why you waited a little longer before changing that usual "Thanks." in a more personal "Thank you.". You weren't sure he could emotionally sense the subtle difference, but you were sure that a slight change like that wouldn't go unnoticed by his keen observation. You knew he was a stalker and a keen observer, watching and learning was in his nature, and since your first night together his extraordinary powers of observation had allowed him to discover so much about you in a short time. And before revealing himself to you, he had recreated part of your daily life in this room. He even found a way to cut off a lock of your hair without your knowledge. This made you think about how many times he had probably spied on you even while you were tying your hair before going to sleep.

All about you had to belong to him.

For this reason, now, your fingers were tying your hair in your usual, soft braid: it was something you usually did in the tranquility of your nights, something that was missing in this room, although it reproduced part of your daily life; and you knew - you felt - that he liked to own that natural gesture of yours, too, the same gesture that, for a long time, he could only spy in silence, hiding in the shadows, managing to recreate it at the best by stealing your hair tie and secretly cutting off a lock of your hair. You thought about how he could perceive this change of yours: you, confined in this bedroom, in his old and decrepit house, would never have been able to make such a natural, daily gesture, if you hadn't already begun to accept that this really was your new life. Your life with him. Your life for him.  
Or at least you wished he thought this way and that your plan was really working.

Your nausea was over, the pangs finally ended and you, with one last wrap, tied the elastic around your newly finished braid, lay on your stomach, hid your face in the pillow and closed your eyes.  
But your mind didn't seem to remain silent.

How long have you been confined to this room? Saying you felt claustrophobic was very little thing, an understatement. In fact, more and more often you felt suffocated and like you were about to implode. And then you thought that, if stopping insulting him a long time ago had allowed you to no longer have the chain around your wrist, then maybe showing yourself completely subjugated and "in love" in his eyes could have earned you some more benefits, like getting out of this damn bedroom. Not only did you need it, but it could be useful: you could have captured some details of the world outside this house, maybe something useful to signal your presence in there and call for help. You might have thought about escaping, too, but after what happened that horrible night, the mere thought of trying to escape made you panic: terrifying and painful flashbacks flashed before your eyes, your heart started racing, you could no longer control your breathing and, sometimes, you felt heavily light-headed. You were too afraid of Michael, especially now that you were trying to deceive him. No, trying to escape was too dangerous, as well as stupid: you would have nullified all efforts made so far and you would have lost your only advantage in exchange for the unknown. You had to resist the most natural impulses and be devious.

Much like him.

Since you began your furtive resistance, there was a kind of unwelcome little voice inside your head that seemed sadistically remarking how you were becoming day after day, in a way, more like him. Shaking your head, you stifled that meaningless voice, you repeated to yourself that your enormous stress was making you think about the wrong things; breathing deeply, you thought back on your fine line, you looked at the doorknob, you waited for someone to investigate hot water consumptions that were greater than usual. Flashbacks faded, your heartbeat slowed, your breathing calmed down, your head stopped buzzing.  
And slowly, even in your mind, silence returned.

The last wake of your whirling thoughts washed through you with one final, distant wave, until it slowly dispersed into the expanding darkness and, finally, your consciousness began to gently slip into the oblivion of sleep. With your eyes closed, you let yourself sink deeper and deeper, abandoning yourself among the immaterial waves of that dark sea of silence.

Until the door creaked open.

A sound as delicate as short that seemed to come from far away, loud enough to make you notice it, without however completely waking you up.  
You were still sinking into the waves of darkness when fingers landed gently on one of your ankles peeping out from underneath the sheets. A touch as light as a feather but heavy enough to let your consciousness flood back. With your eyes still closed, you swallowed and stood still, your full attention suddenly focused on those fingertips.

The fingers gently traveled up your leg, leaving a warm trail behind them; along the way up, the sheets were gradually pushed apart, until the whole hand, running along your thigh, landed on your hip. The other hand pulled the sheets completely off your body and rested on the other hip. His fingers slipped under the hem of your underwear, his thumbs smoothly drawing circles on the skin of your butt. You couldn't help the tingle that stirred between your legs, the shaking that pooled in your stomach made you hold your breath. His big calloused hands, so warm and delicate on your body, never stopped reminding you how, despite that apparent gentleness, they were capable of taking lives in a heartbeat and without hesitation. Cruel and deadly hands that came home covered in innocent blood but that, with you, were always ready to delight you with that cursed and intense pleasure you couldn't resist. Probably, not even if you wanted to.  
As much as you kept telling yourself it was pure and simple biology, somewhere inside of you, you knew - you felt - that receiving that "special" treatment from that dangerous and indomitable force was undeniably seducing you day by day. You told yourself that your accommodating ways were only the result of the dangerous smoke and mirrors game you were playing, and you were increasingly trying to ignore that terrible suspicion you refused to even name. But the suspicion, sneaking into your mind, nested deeper and deeper in the crevices of your consciousness and waited in ambush for your weakness to strike.

The billows of darkness moulded in your mind, taking the shape of the man to whom those warm and deadly hands belonged, and you opened your eyes. Michael had joined you in your room and he didn't seem to have any intention of overwatching you sleep.

His hands completely slipped beneath your underwear and, while one hand pulled the skin of your butt tight, the other reached your groin. Long fingers snaked between your still closed legs in search of your pussy and, moving between your folds, they found your entrance. Your breath hitched and he must have known you were awake by now. His fingers tried to slip in, but your closed legs and the lack of sufficient lubrication seemed to cause him some difficulty. Resigned, you closed your eyes and barely spread your legs, easing his movements. You were an obedient lover after all, so it wouldn't make sense to wait for him to force you when you, officially, were more than willing to please him, right?

He must have liked your cooperation - he always liked it when you were cooperative - and his fingers tapped your entry with quick, short nudges, allowing your body to start producing the fluids he liked so much. With your eyes still closed, all your attention focused on the fingers penetrating you and on the lethal hand that tightly held your ass. Your pussy finally started to get wet and shortly after his fingers, coated with your essence, trailed towards your clit. He massaged it, deliberate, moistening it with your liquids, and shortly after he pushed up its hood and nudged against the most exposed and sensitive part, massaging and stroking it. You shuddered at the sharpest sensations, arched your back, and he, pressing, continued to rub your clit with circular and gentle movements.  
Until short time ago, you hated how he always knew so well how and where to touch you, but now that terrible suspicion that you still refused to name made that hatred more and more faded. You swallowed and sought silence in your mind as you let Michael once again do with you whatever he wanted.  
Your pussy got completely wet and his fingers slipped from your clit into you. He bent his fingers, rubbing and pressing on the sensitive spot behind your pubic bone, causing you a first, initial spasm.

Michael barely gasped, continuing to gently finger you, without however allowing you to open your legs more; you felt your pussy throbbing completely soaked and he, shortly after, pulled out his fingers completely coated with your essence. You felt him grab the hem of your panties and, slowly, he tugged them down to your ankles, while you helped him take them off, so as to be able to open your legs without much effort. But Michael, still holding you by the ankles, kept your legs closed and, quick and smoothly, he climbed onto the bed, trapping your legs, barely open, between his powerful ones and straddling you.  
He bent over you, his warm crotch brushed against your ass, his erection was already quite obvious and your most primal part clenched down at the very thought of what was about to happen; then he, lifting your t-shirt so as to better expose your naked ass to his lustful gaze, placed his hand next to you, making the mattress dip, and dragged his other hand below your pelvis, looking for your wet pussy. His fingers got back to massaging your clit, pressing and teasing it smoothly, covering it with your own liquids. The crisp sound of his heavy breath felt warm on your neck, accompanied the deliberate movements of his fingers between your legs.  
He started pushing on your sensitive clit and you couldn't help the quick jolt that made your back arch and your pussy gape around nothing; he slipped his fingers into your hole, pushing them deeper: your canal was much tighter in this position and you could already feel incredibly full with just two of his fingers.

Michael pushed again against the spot behind your pubic bone, massaging and squeezing it with his fingers against your wall; the pressure was gentle and, feeling that familiar little knot begin to form in your belly, you soon tried to follow his movements with your hips, even though your position didn't allow you to move enough. Michael kept rotating and pushing his fingers inside you, letting new liquids drip out of your wet pussy, moistening even the top of your inner thighs. You gasped, you began to feel the growing need within you, as his heavy breathe continued to caress your neck. You tried in vain to bump your ass against his crotch while he teased you more, until he gradually slowed down and pulled out his fingers. You sighed with a slight frustration at the feeling of emptiness that returned between your legs, until you felt Michael drag both his hands under you and slip them between your slightly parted thighs; he began massaging the area around your pussy, squeezing your labia first between them and against your wet hole and then parting and widening them again, letting your pussy spread and suffer from its need to be filled.  
Your hips moved with excitement, tried to grind and find something that could give you a little relief, but Michael controlled your position, decided your every single movement. He continued to massage you and spread the liquids of your arousal all over your entrance, your slipperiness seemed to make your clit slip every time he pressed it between your labia. Your excitement grew with frustration, made the emptiness between your legs greater, small, soft moans escaped your lips like mild and involuntary pleas.  
Two fingers penetrated you again, filling you, rekindling your disgusting hope, but the frustration soon returned, as they remained inside you just long enough to be coated with your fluids again and savor the needy spasms of your walls; shortly after, in fact, he stopped, even though your body seemed to beg him to continue.  
His hands left your needy pussy, but the sound of his zip tugged down and his jumpsuit rustling down his body stirred a whirlwind of disgust and excitement in your stomach that made you tingle with expectation. Michael freed your legs from his weight, sitting back on his heels positioned on either side of you and making the bed slightly creak. Your breathing quickened, your pussy throbbed again.

Placing both hands next to you, Michael lowered himself again, his cock brushed against your ass: yes, it was definitely hard. Panting slightly, you ignored the hated suspicion and, repeating to yourself that you had no other choice anyway, you bumped your ass against his crotch, begging him to continue and showing him you had no intention of opposing. He snorted behind you, his cock twitching on your butt, an unmistakable sign that your cooperation had pleased and aroused him even more.  
Michael held his hard and warm cock flush between your buttocks, allowing you to visualize his size in your mind and giving you an idea of just how ready he was to take you once again.

Leaning and positioning himself better on your body, Michael rolled his hips against your butt, rubbing his hard and hot cock on your bare skin: remaining stuck under him and having no way to look at him only intensified your sensations, filling you more and more with impatience and desire. His weight shifted onto his arm and the other hand moved out of your line of sight. Without too much waiting, you felt him grab his cock and slide it between your legs, looking for your pussy. His thick tip gave a few nudges and then, despite the tight position you were forced into, parted your lips in search of your entrance. Another spasm made you clench down and Michael, panting in your ear, found your hole: his hand left his cock and came back beside you, allowing him to settle back on you, while his tip continued to tease you, causing you to spasm and gasp; savoring every moment of the arousal he was capable of causing you, Michael, barely rocking, let his cock glide over your slipperiness, coating it with your liquids and making it twitch with desire. You moaned almost imperceptibly and tried to follow his movements with your pelvis, your wet pussy coated his hot cock with your liquids, kissed it with your labia wrapped around his shaft. His cock twitched again and Michael moaned in your ear; then, using a hand, he grabbed his cock again and lined it up against your entrance. And he pushed. You almost jumped forward, a slight moan escaped your lips: although you were both lubricated, your legs weren't open enough, therefore your hole was still too tight for his huge cock to enter smoothly.

But Michael didn't seem to care as, trying to hold back his grunts, he tried again, harder. You whimpered and that second rather violent thrust began to creep in you a slight sense of fear: although you didn't want to name your ever-recurring suspicion, you couldn't deny how much you preferred his more "gentle" ways, how much you had become almost accustomed to his sick sweetness lately; and then, those gentle ways made it easier to pretend. Now, having the feeling that he might be violent with you frightened you and pushed you to do anything to soften him up again towards you.

You tried to lift your butt so as to gain some space and help him penetrate you more smoothly, but Michael prevented it and thrust harder to be able to sink into you even in those conditions. And he did it again, more aggressively, grunting and ignoring your moans and attempts to adjust your position; short, sharp thrusts that seemed to scratch the contours of your hole and force his bulky cock between your walls still too tight. You imagined that even for him it could be unpleasant, yet he didn't stop and did nothing to ease the penetration. It almost seemed he wanted it to hurt.

With another rough thrust, Michael grunted and finally managed to fully penetrate you, his whole cock making its way inside you with stubborn arrogance, making you clench your teeth as it sank deeper and deeper. You knew all too well how huge he was, but feeling his cock like this, between your closed legs, forcing your narrow canal to shape around it made it feel even bigger and harder. You felt every single inch of it open you from the inside, impaling you, your body doing its best to lodge it.

After crashing against your cervix, Michael slowly began to withdraw, pulling it almost completely out and you almost felt relief. But then, without warning, he quickly slammed into you against a totally wrong spot, causing you to howl and jolt forward again, the painful sensation of feeling your insides move because of his brutal intrusion. Michael repeated the motion, again and again, mercilessly, his skin slapping yours every time he sank his hips into you, his animalistic grunts echoing in your ear. In the midst of the painful shocks that radiated through your belly, a more abundant gush gurgled within you and you were almost certain that it was your own blood.  
With brutal precision, Michael hit again that totally wrong spot inside of you, making you scream at the sudden pain that instantly radiated into your depths.  
He was deliberate, it was intentional.  
Your fear increased, you began to wonder why he wanted to hurt you even though you were behaving well, and the paranoia of having been discovered began to wind through your mind: suddenly, you were so scared that you would have done anything not to suffer Michael's anger, even admit and embrace the reality that your unwanted suspicion kept whispering to you at the less opportune moments. You knew Michael wanted to manipulate you, you knew this was all wrong on every level, yet there were times when a part of you, to your utter horror, no longer seemed too distraught about it.

As mortifying and disgusting as it was, in fact, you couldn't deny that strange sense of dark pleasure you felt at the idea that those hands that kept you trapped and the man they belonged to were merciless and lethal to everyone except you. Even if you knew what his ultimate goal was and how wrong all of this was, the idea of being the only one to receive those "special attentions" exerted an undeniable and magnetic attraction on you. The same attraction that, in the most difficult moments, seemed to frighteningly push you to seek that strange form of sick consolation in him, inevitably welcoming him in you and making you lose yourself.

It wasn't mere carnal pleasure, it wasn't a sense of power - you knew you had no power over him. It was something deeper. Something more complicated. You were probably going as insane as he was, but you certainly couldn't deny the sick attraction that a part of you felt at the idea of being the only one for him. The idea that those deadly and bloody hands wanted to take care of you.  
You told yourself that it was just a misguided thought caused by your forced and exasperating condition, a misunderstanding, an inevitable consequence of your having to pretend to reciprocate his feelings. Yet the suspicion, with its jeering little voice, kept repeating to you that, deep down, it wasn't so bad to let everything go and belong to him, to feel you are the only one to elicit certain reactions in a being that couldn't even be defined human and, surrendering, to stop thinking, starting to really accept all of this. And in the face of his brutality, you hoped to return to receive his exclusive kindness.  
You tried to shake that frightening thought away, you repeated to yourself that you were mentally and emotionally falling apart, unstable, therefore not totally capable of thinking clearly; you whimpered and whispered his name softly. Michael pulled back again and you prepared to suffer another jolt of that sharp pain, but this time his thrust didn't want to harm you.  
Quite the contrary.

Michael in fact hit an extremely pleasant spot inside you and his own thrusts became anything but painful; his cock rubbed your sweet spot and, rocking against you, Michael completely lowered himself on you, his hair brushing up against you and his face sinking into the crook of your neck. He grabbed your wrists, placing them over your head and, without stopping his rotations in you, he pinned them against the mattress with one hand. He took a deep breathe of your scent and skimmed his teeth along your neck, making you shiver and gasp. He breathed on your skin, his tongue dragged from your neck to your ear and he nibbled on your earlobe, then moved to your face and, continuing to gently push and sway inside you, stood looking at you, breathing on your cheek. Panting, you returned his gaze and you thanked him in your mind for having stopped hurting you, the fear that he was somehow onto you and, for this reason, he was treating you without any regard slowly began to dissolve.

But, just as you began to relax, letting yourself be carried away by the growing pleasure in your abdomen, Michael, with his eyes still bored into your softened ones, clenched harder his hand around your wrists and brutally pushed against the wrong spot inside you. You screamed at the painful sensation in your gut, your heart jumped and Michael, never taking his gaze from yours, repeated the same movement, a sharp and violent thrust, his cock used like a weapon inside you, your cervix on fire. You groaned again, pleasure and pain mixed together, your confusion clear and visible on your face: why did he seem to deliberately want to mock you and hurt you?

Your pleading gaze sought answers in his, impenetrable, inscrutable. His hand gripped your wrists again, not caring to form new bruises, while the other, settling better on the mattress, supported more his weight. Michael stared at the confused panic painted in your eyes and partially pulled his cock out. You expected another violent thrust and closed your eyes in anticipation. But the push didn't come. Instead, Michael started twirling his hips, drawing large circles and pressing the contours of your hole, harshly using his cock to widen it. Groaning, you opened your eyes and his gaze was still fixed on you and the grimaces of pain and confusion that were drawn on your face. He seemed to want to pierce through your soul and you really began to fear that he had discovered you; you tried to divert his attention by begging him, but all you got was a slight flinch of his lashes, as he continued to push and enlarge your hole with his hard cock.

The sensations of pain and pleasure mingled as in a macabre dance and intensified with your fear, the heat inside you flared up despite the rough feel of your walls, while you, helpless, shrank more and more in front of his penetrating, all-absorbing gaze. Part of you was telling you that nothing really different had happened lately that might have made him suspicious, apart from your small changes, of course, but he even seemed to like them. So, the answer you wanted, the reason why Michael seemed to want to punish you tonight was elsewhere. And in your silent panic, suddenly a thought troubled you even more deeply. So casual and dreadful. A thought that you had never actually considered.

What if you were a curse to him, too?

For all this time, in fact, you had always thought that only YOU were the cursed one: you had been humiliated and violated in every possible and unimaginable way by a man you didn't even know. You had been soiled, sullied, you were turning to the point of incerasingly doubting yourself. Drained slowly and inexorably by a murderer who, deciding to make you his only exception by keeping you alive, seemed to be killing you only in a different way. And the more you survived, the more you died.  
All this time, you always thought it was just you, the cursed one. But what about Michael? A man so solitary, who seemed to be born with the sole purpose of killing, evil in his purest and most absolute sense to the point that he even overpowered death, how could he feel about it? You were sure you were a unique case in his existence, just as he was in yours: what impact did it have on him, though? Was his obsession with you really fulfilling for him or were you actually plaguing his thoughts? How could a Force born to destroy really want, albeit in a sick way, to take care of someone else? Maybe, even for him, as for you, your bond was a curse.

Suddenly, in front of his cold and inscrutable gaze, after a long time your eyes filled with tears again: if until that moment you were terrified of Michael Myers in love with you in his own way, now you were even more at the idea of Michael Myers FRUSTRATED because in love with you in his own way. And just as suddenly you thought that feeling "special" for him was no longer giving you that strange form of sick consolation.  
A deep, primal sense of anguish enveloped your soul, your entire existence was as if engulfed in a dark abyss made of bleak loneliness, whose only company was given by a horrible and nullifying pain.

Feeling more and more distraught in front of this new disheartening prospect, the bitter knot of crying tightened your throat and, almost without you noticing, a feeble whisper escaped your lips:

"I didn't mean to-- Please, Michael, forgive me if I'm a problem."

Your heart felt as if torn by your own words.  
After what you just thought, after what you just said, what was really left of you? Your furtive resistance, your attempt to deceive him waiting to be saved, the fine line that was supposed to help preserve you... All in vain. A taste of his sadistic brutality managed to make you give up spontaneously, surrendering you to him, totally subjugated. You wanted to stop fighting. Michael was too strong, you felt dominated in every way, you felt that you had just lost your last battle.

You had been in fact so used to his "kindness", to the idea that a monster like him could have your life at heart, that you had never considered another point of view, much more problematic for your survival. And only now that you felt you were losing your "privilege", you almost begged him to give you back his sick affection. Maybe Michael needed to possess you and be reciprocated not to fulfill his distorted vision of love but to humiliate and punish you in the most absolute way. So, just when you really didn't seem to resist him anymore, acting like a lover and even giving him your little daily gestures, you had just convinced him that his ultimate goal had been accomplished. There was nothing else of you that he could appropriate, and now that you were devoted to him, he was finally free to humiliate and dominate you. Hurting you. Punishing you. He probably hated you for the effect you had on him, for being his exception, so now he wanted to use you to satiate those needs that only you caused him and punish you for being his curse.

The deep and undoing despair of your new and painful loneliness sucked you into the dark abyss, your vision watered and, just as the first warm tears poured from your eyes, Michael slowed his brutal pace and his rotations and thrusts ceased to be cruel with your body. He brought his face closer to yours, his breath on your lips, his eyes buried into yours. And, with a slow, deep thrust, he fully plunged into you and stopped.  
He remained still for a long time, fully sunk inside you, his cock slightly twitched, but his attentive and inquiring gaze continued to reveal nothing of his thoughts while trying to read yours without restraint. Your lips parted in a silent moan and your eyes closed again, shedding more abundant tears and, feeling even more overwhelmed by his penetrating gaze, with your weeping voice you sobbed one last, desperate plea:

"Please, Michael, I don't-- Please don't hate me."

A surreal silence hovered in and around you, you felt like you were slowly sinking into another dimension. Only dust was left of the rock you once were and the man who was killing you by keeping you alive was really all you had. You knew that the sick consolation that a part of you was looking for in him was totally wrong, but now, faced with your fear of being hated by him, you were pining for that consolation and its absence was digging an even deeper void in you. You would have done anything to break the curse that bound you and put an end to his hatred, to the suffering of both of you, thus restoring freedom to both. Even if, for you, it would have meant getting killed. But, after all, could you still consider yourself alive?

Your mute raving seemed to gradually absorb all that remained of your consciousness, until Michael, letting go of your bruised wrists, brushed your face, bringing you back to reality. Warm fingers, as delicate as a summer breeze, wiped your strands of hair away from your face and, barely touching your cheek, tucked them behind your ear. He cupped your face and his thumb stroked your cheek, then your soft, quivering lips. The delicacy and warmth of that touch were surreal to say the least, that wasn't the touch of hatred. You opened your eyes and your gaze met Michael's, still fixed on you, and you couldn't help but think back to the first time he let you look at his real face. Just like in that dreadful night, his eyes, though impenetrable, were still ferocious and affectionate. But unlike in that night, now, they were almost consoling to you.

Your vision fluttered and your lips silently parted. His gaze in fact didn't seem to hate you as you thought. You stood staring at him almost spellbound, your broken mind wandering aimlessly, having its wires crossed. Michael tilted his head and you, closing your mouth, swallowed, your dazed face, your questioning eyes. Michael squinted his eyes, his slightly sly look caught you off guard and the doubt that you were wrong peeped into your thoughts. Michael seemed to have even enjoyed your latest ramblings and you, in your utter confusion, no longer knew what to think, how to interpret his cryptic behavior, the incomprehensible mystery that was Michael Myers. Did he feel pleased because he had humiliated you again? Or maybe because you just demonstrated that you were completely in his power, completely subjugated? It could have been so, but his hands, his gaze... No. It wasn't hate what you saw - what you felt. Michael was probably even amused, but you didn't feel his hatred.

..So why was he deliberately mocking and hurting you until a few seconds ago? You had done everything you thought he would have liked so far, this behavior of his didn't make any sense.

The hand that was cupping your face slid around your chin and Michael, holding you still, closed in on you and trapped you in a soft kiss. You leaned into his lips, hesitantly kissing him back, gently, softly; but, within you, the eternal struggle between having to pretend non-existent feelings and, at the same time, ignoring your frightening spontaneity towards him. The same eternal struggle that escalated with the paranoid terror of making a mistake and being discovered and punished by him.  
His lips parted from yours, his breathing gradually became heavier and he stood looking at you for a few more moments; then, his hand left your chin and Michael, adjusting himself on your body, begun to gently rock against you.  
This time his rhythm was slow, his thrusts were shallow and your watery eyes didn't peel off from his not even for a moment. You were confused, you were afraid that he would have hurt you again as soon as you have started to relax. Michael, closing in on your face again, kissed you again, sticking his tongue into your mouth and rubbing it on yours. You moaned against his lips and he plunged into you again, his cock felt even bigger by the tight position he was forcing you into. You felt it all, huge and warm between your walls, your sweet spot rubbed voluptuously at a brutally perfect pace. You couldn't hold back another heated moan against his lips as Michael, still rocking against you, slipped a hand under your body and grabbed you by the waist. Holding you even tighter, he parted from your lips and buried his face into the side of your neck, continuing to rock idly against you.

The feeling of pleasure grew more and more and you felt that familiar pressure begin to build in you. Michael bit into your neck and sucked, making you shiver as he kept rocking against you and squeezing your warm walls around him. Your body, pressed against his, was carried away by his rhythm, beginning to relax and you thought again about that terrible night: his fury at your escape attempt, what had happened afterwards, his reiterating of how much you belonged to him, everything convinced you more and more that he felt "betrayed" by you, his most coveted personal belonging. You were his and your scar was there to remind it to you at all times. It was his mark on you, and it was fulfilling for him to see it, to touch it. A curse can't be fulfilling.  
For the first time since that terrible night, that word whispered in your ear and carved in your flesh was no longer just feared. For the first time, that word, like the twisted affection in his eyes, was even soothing you.

Michael bit hard your neck, making you scream at the sudden sharp pain and, grunting and sucking on the skin almost certainly broken by his teeth, doubled his pace, abusing your sweet spot, again and again. His hand tightened around your waist, your wet pussy seemed to suck his hungry cock even deeper and the knot in your abdomen became tighter and closer to snap. Michael slightly shifted so that he could thrust right next to where you really needed and you, torn between carnal pleasure and trying to understand his strange behavior tonight, begged him again, his name slipped out of your lips with staccato moans, your voice broken by his strong thrusts inside you.

Michael continued to swing his hips, pushing and rotating against the walls of your hole, his body pressed flush against yours. The hand around your waist slipped down between your legs and his fingers searched for your neglected clitoris, slightly teasing it and making you moan again with need: you knew you needed just a little more stimulation and, noticing how Michael barely grazed all of yours weak spots, avoiding them with cruel precision, you finally began to recover from the delusional state you were in just a few moments ago. Thoughts, fears, doubts, everything seemed to slowly fade in your mind. Michael was provoking you again and this simple observation allowed you to begin to understand what his real intentions were.  
His fingers left your needy clit and his whole hand returned to grab your hip: holding you tight, Michael continued to thrust and fuel the hot pressure inside you, the knot getting tighter but never enough to snap; you just needed a little more stimulation, his touch right next to where his cock kept crashing.  
He was deliberate, he knew it.  
Finally understanding the reason behind his strange behavior tonight, you tried to ignore the umpteenth sense of defeat that stirred in your chest, you swallowed again and, with your voice broken by his powerful thrusts, you begged him the way he liked it:

"Michael, please, I-- Help me."

The hand around your waist tightened, a guttural sound vibrated from his chest on you and his tongue, brushing over your jaw, dragged up your cheek. You gave him another pleading glance, your whole existence was in his warm and lethal hands.

"Please, Michael, I need you."

His eyelashes fell on his merciless and smug look, you knew it was what he wanted, you knew - you felt - you weren't wrong this time. Michael pushed and plunged into you as deep as he could and stood still, his eyes completely bored into yours, his warm breath on your skin; then his gaze drifted over to somewhere on the bed. Leaning more on your back, Michael bent forward, reaching out and you heard him grab his pillow. He came back up, folded his pillow in two and, lifting you by the waist, slipped it under your pelvis; he pulled out and barely parted from your body, so as to fully open your legs and settle you better on his pillow beneath you. Then, sliding between your legs, Michael grabbed you by the hips with both hands and, holding your butt up and spreading your buttocks, lined up his cock against your entrance; tapping it with his fat tip, he barely penetrated you with short thrusts, only half of its length going in and out of your abused hole completely exposed to his hungry gaze. He stood behind you watching as his cock slipped in and out of you, gliding smoothly and filling the room with your wet sounds. Soon after he lowered himself on you and, with a single fluid movement, he pushed totally inside you, your back arched once more as his cock filled you again and your desire grew. He gently hit your sweet spot and, keeping you trapped under his mighty body, Michael began to rock against you again, his gentle rhythm gradually accelerated, letting your neglected clit finally get a little more attention as it kept rubbing against his pillow between your legs.

Before you even knew it, the new position and his targeted thrusts were quickly overwhelming you, the added stimulation you needed was hastening the arrival of your release. Michael buried his face back into the side of your neck, sucking your soft skin, while thrusting into you. You were close, incredibly close, your sweet spot assaulted by his huge cock, your clit rubbing against his pillow, his balls slapping your pussy: within seconds, everything became terribly more intense, your hips were moving in sync with his, the slapping sounds of skin-to-skin contact echoing through the room. His hot breath was getting heavier, he was close, too.  
Panting, you felt the pressure inside you increase, the tight knot ready to snap, your hands, clutching the sheets, wandered in search of something to cling to. Michael sank his teeth into the skin between your neck and shoulder, making you scream again, and his cock rubbed against your sweet spots harder, again and again. Feeling trapped between the enormous pleasure of your electrified clit and the perfect assaults of his huge cock, you lost all grip on reality and snapped. Shocking waves stormed you, an electrifying, uncontrollable pleasure completely washed over you, making you rattle beneath him; your eyes got lost beyond your eyelids and your moans filled the room. Your walls, rhythmically clenching in the ecstasy of your orgasm, sucked Michael's cock into your depths, his held grunts vibrating on your back. You felt him struggle not to cum, sinking his teeth into your neck like a wild beast, as he continued to fuck you throughout your orgasm and savor your every juicy spasm around him.

Your spasms slowed and, as you gradually descended from your peak, Michael gripped you tighter, one hand around your waist, the other around your throat. Kneeling behind you, he lifted you up and you, despite being still dizzy with pleasure, accompanied his movements. Keeping you held on his cock by the waist, he continued to shove brutally inside you, your walls raw from his violence and overstimulation, his hand around your throat tightened stronger, made you breathe with difficulty. Grunting in your ear, Michael kept you pressed flush against him, his need to reach his own end more and more urgent; although his hand was painfully tightened around your neck and you were increasingly gasping, you tried not to panic and, straining to remain as stable as possible on your knees, you moved your hips in sync with his, so as to help him to cum. As soon as you started to contract your muscles around his cock, Michael groaned again and, with one last powerful thrust, shoved as deep as he could; he stiffened and, with an almost painful grunt, released streams of hot cum inside you, flooding your overused walls and trembling against your body.

Michael sighed and yanked you by the waist while letting go of your bruised neck: you fell forward, your fall stopped by your hands; you felt him quickly drag his pillow from under your pelvis, placing it next to you on the bed; then he pulled out and both of his hands grabbed your ass, holding it up in front of him, his eyes staring at his cum as it dripped lazily out of your pussy. He collected some liquid with two fingers and, bending over you, brought them to your mouth: forcing yourself not to hesitate too much, you licked his fingertips and you weren't surprised to taste, in addition to his savour, that of your own blood.  
Satisfied, Michael let go of your hips and rolled beside you; you followed him with your eyes as he, lying on his side, tucked his cock back into his boxer shorts and rearranged his pillow. Winking at you, he pushed his nose into the pillow impregnated with your release and inhaled deeply your scent. His eyes barely flickered, enough to show you how much he enjoyed the scent of your stickiness. He tucked his pillow under his head, pulled the blankets up and, as he crawled towards you to hold you close, you preceded him and, for the first time, you voluntarily curled up in his arms: your silent thanks for having been nice again, your attempt to show him your subjugation and some kind of naturalness between two lovers. His body stiffened only for a few moments in front of your unexpected gesture and you hoped you didn't dare too much. Staying with your head bowed, you hid your face in his chest, his strong, masculine scent, overwhelming that of your release on his pillow, intoxicated and numbed you. Michael took a deep breath of your scent and finally exhaled relaxed, holding you close, ready to fall asleep with you. He must have liked it. And while you closed your eyes, the voices in your head calmed down, letting all doubts fade away.

In your mind it was in fact clear that, by refusing to accept that side of you that felt attracted and satisfied by Michael, you had let yourself be overwhelmed even more by the inevitable discordant emotions that ensued, weakening you, making you ramble. By letting weakness and despair get the better of you, you had felt confused and disoriented to the point of even seeking human contact with Michael, allowing his abyss to once again absorb another piece of you. As much as it hurt you, there was a part of you that took comfort in knowing that you were the only one for such a being, and its dark lure exerted a strong magnetism on you. Denying your unwanted attraction to him would only trigger further struggles with yourself and, hence, strengthen his power over you. No, you couldn't deny the existence of this sick part of you, this forced bond made so intense and exasperated by your prolonged confinement and exposure to his physical and psychological abuses. You couldn't deny it, but you could accept it and try to live with it, while doing your best to not let it dominate you. Not letting him find and cross your fine line.  
In fact, if you had immediately accepted your sick side, maybe you would have been less strict with yourself, remaining therefore more lucid and less paranoid, and you would have immediately realized that tonight Michael was simply manipulating you again: you had changed a lot towards him and you knew he liked that; but it was logical to think that, from his perspective, it was necessary to test you a little more deeply, to see how you would have behaved if he hadn't been more "kind" as he must have realized by now that you liked. Putting you to the test in a more unpleasant situation.

With your eyes closed, lulled by his calm breathing, you accepted this latest failure of yours, repeating yourself to pay more attention, to remain more lucid, to not accuse yourself too much if you sometimes felt those frightening and nauseating emotions; Michael would have tried to manipulate you again and you had to learn quickly to shield yourself and play along, without getting confused and overwhelmed again by your inevitable discordant emotions. You had to learn to be devious. Just like him.  
Feeling the warmth of his embrace, the tranquillity of his heartbeat, the promise of that bond, you knew that tonight you had said the right words, you had done the right things.

You had passed his test once again.

But you succeded by making yourself pay a price once again too high, and this - for your own good - must not happen again.

-

When you opened your eyes, the usual nausea greeted your awakening. You were alone, as always, but the warmth left on the sheets on Michael's side of the bed indicated that he had just woken up. You jolted, your heart in your throat, and your gaze flew to the desk, but there was still no tray with your meal: so, he would have been back soon. Still feeling mortified by the emotional turmoil that had plagued you the previous night, you hurried to get up and go to the bathroom, so as to avoid meeting Michael when he had brought you your meal. You wanted to have time to recover from what you had felt, from what you had realized, without risking that his presence could confuse you: you still felt too vulnerable and couldn't risk it. You were always alone, but suddenly it was like you weren't alone enough, and you needed it.

You closed the bathroom door behind you to carry out your daily routine, albeit with some difficulty. In fact, using the toilet was quite painful, since he had even made you bleed with his previous assault; and same thing happened during the shower: there were no mirrors in your room but, based on the stinging and painful burning and what you could touch, you knew that Michael, by biting your neck, had even broken your skin.  
You let the hot water flow long on your body, the steam enveloped you lazily and you managed to relax more, so as to psych yourself up to continue your furtive resistance.  
When you finished washing, you wore a pair of panties and a t-shirt and went back to your bedroom. But, as soon as you opened the door, you winced, seeing Michael standing in front of you, the tray in his hands. In the strange mix of awe and embarrassment that pervaded you, your gaze bounced from Michael to the tray and then back to Michael. A part of you was once again imbued by that sick comfort, you thought back to the warmth of his embrace last night, the chest against which you were curled up. You blinked nervously and stammered in front of his motionless figure, the black slits of his mask staring at your face. You finally managed to unravel your tangled thoughts and, stuttering, you forced yourself to break that awkward silence:

"G--good morning, Michael."

The mask looked at you, but didn't answer. It never did.

Ignoring the heat in your chest caused by the damn comfort, you lowered your gaze, your heart pounding. Michael remained motionless, watching you: was he surprised by your greeting? Was he admiring his marks on your neck? Was he expecting anything from you after your gesture last night? You had no idea, but what was certain was that you had to do something useful, anything that a lover would do.

Your hesitant eyes sought his and then you meekly returned to look at the tray; you stretched out your trembling hands, maybe he wanted to give it to you. Your hands grabbed it without pulling it to you. But Michael didn't leave the tray in your hands; he remained still like a statue, watching you, studying you. And you, realizing it, without taking your eyes off the tray, let it go, bringing your hands back to your sides and stammering:

"I was thinking that-- I mean-- maybe I could cook sometimes-- for the both of us."

Your heart seemed to blast out of your chest: you had just dared to ask for something. You hoped you hadn't ventured too much.

"..yes, um, if you want, of course, if you like the idea... I could--"

Your eyes traveled insecure to his face but you couldn't withstand the pressure of his gaze, the weight of that overwhelming silence. Your hands joined against your chest and you lowered your head again:

"I-- Nevermind, forgive me... It was stupid."

You shut your eyes, your heart was racing in your chest, the heavy silence broken only by his breath. Michael had no reaction to give you. After long, endless instants, he walked to the desk and placed the tray with your meal on it, your eyes, reopening, followed his movements. Michael stepped away from the desk, heading for the door and, just before walking through the doorway, he turned his head and his eyes returned to you. You felt pierced but you forced yourself to return his gaze, the trepidation seemed to turn your stomach. Michael stood still and silent, his face hid behind his impassive, illegible mask as usual and, after a few seconds, he turned his head again and silently walked away, closing the door behind him.

With your hands still joined, you stood staring at the closed door in front of you, your heart began to slow down and your legs seemed to collapse beneath your own weight. Looking at the tray on the desk, you leaned against the wall behind you and sighed deeply. And in the silent loneliness that had returned to envelop you, you wished that Michael had really considered and liked your unexpected suggestion.

-

That night the wind never seemed to stop. It howled again, banging shutters somewhere in the decrepit house. There was a strange electricity in the air that night. The storm coming up, you thought. The pitch black of your room was only broken through by the lightnings outside, and you thought back to that sky you weren't allowed to admire for too long.  
The concept of time was getting more and more alien, distant, and, at the same time, oppressive; the idea of life was like a small fallow field hidden in a remote corner in your mind, on which you couldn't linger too long. And then, you were always tired. A deep sense of exhaustion that drained you of all energy. For this reason and to avoid exhausting yourself even more with the torment of your thoughts, you were already prepared to go to sleep. You brushed your soft braid aside and over a shoulder, slipped under the covers and, closing your eyes, listened to the murmur of the storm outside, waiting for sleep to absorb you, finally granting yourself a respite.

Shrouded in darkness, you didn't have to wait long before the door creaked open.

Sounds of footsteps approached you, but your eyes didn't need to open to shape them. A thunder rumbled in the distance, the wind, howling, diffused it into the immensity of the sky. The footsteps got closer and closer, they reached you, they stopped, your body remained motionless. A breath whispered in your ear and crossed throughout your entire body; you tried to move, but two big hands, grabbing you, immobilized you. Your eyes opened and wandered aimlessly into a greyish darkness, a lightning flashed over the blade of his knife and its glare reflected straight into your pupils. Michael was right in front of you, his knife clutched in his hand, blood dripping slimy from its sharp tip. With one hand he held you still and, climbing on top of you, slid between your legs. You wanted to squirm away, but your body was heavy, everything was too heavy, and your heart started pounding. Michael wrapped his hand around your neck, pinning you against the mattress, the other hand wielded his knife and pressed dangerously its blade to your cheek. Pure dread ran through your veins and you wanted to shout, you wanted to run, but you couldn't: your body was lead, your screams mute. Michael squeezed tighter his fingers around your neck, the pressure on your veins emitted a dull buzz in your ears, and your fear increased. His hand was strong, it blocked your airways; trembling, you grabbed his wrist, your eyes begged him to loosen his grip, but Michael didn't waver, didn't care. Your heart was beating wildly, faster and faster, as his fingers forced your throat, your strength quickly slipped away from you, your hands could no longer grasp on his wrist. Fear turned to panic, agitation turned your stomach, your vision began to blur. Michael held you pinned to the bed, your pleas choked in your throat, while his other hand dragged the blade from your cheek to your chest. You felt the cold steel scratching your skin around your breasts, while the muffled sound of his breath grew louder and louder. Panic overwhelmed you, your breath stuck in your lungs, your heart about to explode, your every muffled sound, your every movement blocked. The steel grip around your neck got stronger and the warm bulge pressed between your legs revealed Michael's obvious erection. He dragged his blade down to your abdomen. Your glistening eyes opened wide, your lips screamed silence, your body went limp. Michael grunted, his fingers seemed to want to break your neck; his eyes bored into yours and the point of the knife began to press dangerously to your abdomen, teasing the elastic resistance of your skin. With his gaze bored into your desperate eyes, Michael closed in on you, his lips moved to speak to you, but the buzz in your ears was too loud, too deafening for you to hear. Michael slightly tilted his head and with a single, sharp push, you felt the blade pierce the center of your abdomen, cutting smoothly through your soft flesh.

And as the whole blade plunged, slashing you mercilessly, you were able to scream and breathe again, jolting awake, your snap in a sitting position braked by the immediate grip of the strong arm around your body. Still gasping and covered in sweat, you turned and Michael was beside you, the black eye slits looking at that unexpected expression of pure terror on your face. A thunder reverberated in the distance, another lightening illuminated your room and for a moment you could glimpse the glare of his eyes beyond the black abyss. You had fallen asleep and you didn't even notice that he had already joined you in bed. Your breathing began to calm down and you tried to pull yourself together, your gaze broke away from Michael's hidden eyes and flew to your abdomen, encircled by your own hands. No blood, no gash. Another thunder rumbled from afar and you looked at Michael again, his still stiffened figure seemed to wonder what has gotten into you:

"I--I'm sorry, it was just a bad dream."

You took a deep breath, your body relaxed. You wondered if Michael had ever dreamt, if he too felt fear at least in his dreams. With your eyes down, you went back to lying on your side, his arm around your body not letting you go even for a moment. A louder thunder broke the silence and you instinctively jumped. Michael didn't waver, not a single reaction, and only then did you realize that for once he had come into your bed without waking you up. Without using you. Almost relieved, you thought of taking advantage of this opportunity and decided to show him your silent affection, your blatant vulnerability even in front of a mere nightmare - you had to do it, you knew he liked it - and so, you snuggled into his embrace before he could pull you against him again. Your show of faithfulness, of your role as his lover. Another thunder rumbled in the distance and you closed your eyes, but the strange feeling of comfort of his warmth against your body, the absurd sense of protection that a murderer like him was able to make you feel, came back to haunt you, gnawing at you. You tried not to be swayed by those discordant emotions again, you tried not to blame yourself too much for what you felt - or rather, for what only a part of you felt - and you concentrated on sleeping again. Those wrong feelings were just a part of you, not your entire existence. They were in you only because of the terrible situation you were experiencing. You could accept them and stay immune, you were stronger than that.

The wind howled, the old shutters still flapped in the storm, while the arm that had never let go of your waist tightened its grip, his big hand, pressing on you, traveled up, his thumb began to stroke you, letting slide beneath his skin every single protuberance of your ribs. Michael sighed softly on your hair and dragged his hand lower, resting it on your hip; then he lifted the edge of your t-shirt, reached for the waistband of your underwear and slipped under the fabric. You opened your eyes again, his chest was rising and sinking rhythmically in front of you, his hand traveled over your ass, his breathing became heavier. Strong fingers began to gently grope your flesh, the other arm, remained tucked under your body, pulled you, dragging your pelvis closer to his cock. He was already half hard.

..So that was why he hadn't woken you up: your nightmare had simply preceded him.

Michael started rubbing his cock against your groin while you resigned yourself to the idea that you couldn't go back to sleep anytime soon. You swallowed and your hands, trapped between your body and his, rested gently on his chest, his heart pounding hard against your palms, his warm cock hardening and twitching in the tight confines of his clothes. Lying on your respective sides, the movements were rather restricted, but you didn't need to worry too much about that, as Michael, leveraging his arm still tucked under your body, lifted himself up, making you smoothly roll onto your back while he remained resting on his forearm between your back and the mattress, his chest looming over you, his masked face fixed on yours. He slipped his other hand out of your panties and brought it to your face, his fingers brushed away some scattered locks of your hair. He stood looking at you briefly and a lightening, piercing the darkness of the room, let you see his eyes fixed on yours, making your heart leap. His hand gently let the entire length of your soft braid slide into his calloused palm, until he grabbed your hair tie and slipped it off. Never taking his gaze away from your face, Michael casually tossed your elastic away and his fingers began to unravel your braid, until your hair was completely loose. His face came even closer to yours, slowly dived into the hollow of your neck covered by your soft hair. And he breathed your scent. Deeply. Slowly. A shiver ran through you and his breath hitched. With his face buried into your neck and loose hair, Michael kept rubbing his cock against your side, while his hand began to wander along your body. It slipped under your t-shirt, your soft skin slid under his calloused palm, his hand wrapped around your breasts. He groped it with strenght but without hurting you, the stirring pooled in your guts, your breathing became more labored. His fingers squeezed and twisted your hardened nipple, his hand reopened on your breast and fondled it harder, squeezing and pulling it, making you slightly moan; then he dragged his hand lower, letting the warm numbness radiate into your breast, and caressed your abdomen. You winced again, the warm touch of his hand on your skin was so different from the cold steel in your nightmare and, where in your nightmare he ripped you apart, now, in reality, he was caressing you. A thunder echoed violently, startling you, while Michael slipped his hand into your underwear. His fingers stroked your clit and shortly after slipped into your pussy, curling and gently spreading you open. You groaned, your hands instinctively touched his arm, but you immediately withdrew them, fearing that you had dared too much. Michael lifted his head and looked back into your eyes, while his fingers, pressing deep inside you, made your body more and more powerless in his arms, your gaze more and more languid.

When he was satisfied with your relaxation, Michael pulled his fingers out of your wet pussy and, placing his hand on the mattress and pulling his arm out from under your shoulders, moved and climbed completely on top of you. He sat on his calves and grabbed your legs, lifting them and spreading them open; he wrapped them around his sides and then hooked his fingers beneath the bottom of your shirt, rolling it up, right under your chin and revealing your naked torso to his eyes. Your delicate skin was bathed in the cold light of the lightnings outside, your legs were spread wide in front of him, just for him, and his breathing became heavier. The pale mask stared down at your crotch, still covered by your wet panties. Michael grabbed you firmly by the hips and yanked you sharply against him, lifting your pelvis up and placing it on his lap, letting your legs spread even wider. Michael looked back at your face, his eyes impossible to see, but you returned his gaze anyway. He leaned a little more over you, as if he wanted to look better at you, and tilted his head to the side. You parted your lips and dared not take your expectant gaze away from his inscrutable. Michael stood staring at you in that position, while his hands slipped under your ass; you felt his fingers twist in your underwear and, gripping the fragile fabric, his strong hands pulled it with a sharp blow. You winced, another thunder rumbled in the distance, while the sound of fabric ripping ran down your panties. Still looking at you, Michael gave another short tug, until your panties were ripped all along the back and down to the seat. His hands returned to your crotch and, slipping between your legs, they finished tearing in half what was left of your underwear, finally revealing your hairy crotch and your wet pussy. Your breathing quickened while Michael pulled the two halves of your panties aside, dragging them down your thighs; then he rested his hands on your inner thighs, a thumb poked your entrance and prodded at your clit. The lightnings outside illuminated the room again and your pussy glistened in front of his eyes, his thumb dipping into you just for a few seconds. Michael in fact briefly rubbed your entrance and then slowly let go of your thighs; he slipped his thumb up beneath his mask, licked your liquid, then grabbed the slider of his jumpsuit's zipper and tugged it down. He shoved his hand into his boxer briefs, pulling them down just enough to free out his cock: it was fully hard and seemed to get even bigger every time his hand stroked it slow and tight, from root to tip; his thumb pressed on his tip and a drop of precum glistened, making your pussy clench down in front of his lustful gaze.

Returning to look into your eyes, Michael lowered down on you, an arm sank next to you and into the mattress, his warm heavy breath on your slightly parted lips. The other hand held his cock, lined it up against your entrance, and then went to the mattress, balancing the weight of his body on you. Michael left his fat tip pressed against your entrance, his masked face inches from yours. Another thunder accompanied your gasps and Michael, looking you in your eyes, penetrated you with one fluid motion. The bed creaked and you inhaled greedily as Michael's cock made its way through your walls, until it sank completely into you. His crotch crashed against yours, your hips couldn't help but follow his.  
You closed your eyes, relaxed under his body, his cock softly sliding in and out of your pussy, filling you and rubbing against your sweet spots. Your hands grazed his sides, tried to grasp onto his huge back, the twitching of his muscles under your touch made you shiver, letting the flame within you spread. Michael buried his face again into the side of your neck and breathed in your scent, you shivered again, grinding against him, meeting his every powerful thrust. The smell of the latex of his mask filled your nostrils and, just as Michael raised his head to look down at your face, his body stiffened and he stopped rocking against you, as if he had just been interrupted by something.

You reopened your eyes, your confused look searched for his, hidden beyond the black holes of his pale mask. Another lightning illuminated the room, letting you see his eyes: they were distant, looking away, his own head slightly turned towards his shoulder. And in the distant murmuring of thunders, you too heard it: the muffled sound of some voices somewhere outside, under your barred window. Your heart leapt, your blood froze in your veins and you instinctively inhaled violently. But Michael was quicker than you and a hand promptly rushed around your neck, choking every possible sound, every possible scream, down into the depths of your throat. His fingers squeezed, something inside your neck felt terribly pinched, Michael's wide open, fiery eyes were fixed on yours. The voices could be heard more and more clearly - male voices, at least two - and they were getting closer and closer, while the steel grip around your neck seemed to make your blood pressure squirt straight into your ears, deafening you with a frightening buzz. Your eyes widened in a desperate plea, your hands tapped on Michael's back; his strong fingers squeezed, his breath came out in hot puffs on your strained face. The voices seemed to be right under your window, a shaking dull sound followed, as if they were trying to open the door. You let go of his back and grabbed his hand clenched around your neck, your weak and trembling touch, doing its best not to betray the adrenaline that was already running through your veins, begged him to let you breathe, to let you speak, your eyes were screaming desperately into his. Michael, noticing that you weren't trying to wriggle, tilted barely his head and loosened a bit his strong grip around your bruised neck, just enough to make you weakly cough and wheeze:

"I-I won't make a sound. Not a single sound. I promise you. I-I always keep my promises."

Michael stared at you, the iron stiffness in his body exuded his wariness, but the slight hesitation of his hand around your neck gave you hope.  
The ringing in your ears faded, you did your best not to panic and give way to your intense thrill, you tried to exploit the nature of your bond:

"Michael, please, there's no need-- Trust me, please, I would never betray you."

Michael was panting, his hand wasn't squeezing your neck. You closed your eyes, you entrusted yourself to his will, your surrender as a show of loyalty, of your obedience to him. Pieces of dialogues reached your ears, the two voices seemed surprised at the idea that a decrepit and abandoned house was even locked. You felt Michael slightly wince, quickly processing the movements of the intruders while considering what to do with you. You closed your eyes, the adrenaline was like liquid fire in your veins, your heart seemed about to explode in your chest, you begged Michael in your mind not to choke you until you were unconscious. You needed to be alert: finally someone was coming to break down the door.  
The voices seemed to be arguing heatedly, another thunder drowned out much of their dialogue, then one of them suggested looking for a back door. The fingers around your neck loosened their grip, you reopened your eyes, your lips parted: Michael was staring at you, the totality of his gaze pervaded you, overpowered you, and it was enough to paralyze you even though he had stopped strangling you.  
He was trusting you.

He was testing you.

You closed your lips, nodded silently and he moved. Without taking his gaze from your face, he pulled his cock out of you and, getting up, readjusted himself. He got out of bed, grabbed his knife and, followed by your terrified, anxious gaze, headed for the door: another lightning illuminated him and, with one last warning glance enough to keep you in your place, Michael silently crossed the doorway and disappeared into the darkness.

You kept staring at the ajar door of your room, your body still stiff on the bed, your ears pricked up, searching for the voices among the rumbling thunders. The door to your room was open! At that simple sight, your body seemed to return to function and you snapped sitting on the bed. You swung your legs over the edge, the bed creaked and you stood up, the two halves of your ripped panties sliding down to your ankles with a slight rustle. The storm was raging, making it difficult to hear the voices. Was it the police? You weren't sure, they seemed too noisy to be police officers about to break in. You took a few steps towards the ajar door, you listened more carefully. One of them - the voice roughly to your left - mumbled, testing the boarded up windows downstairs and then yelled that he could try to pick the lock. No one answered. You searched for the other voice with your hearing, you approached a little more to the ajar door, your heart was racing madly in your chest. You jumped when another thunder ripped through the air and finally the other voice - roughly to your right - replied: it seemed to have finally found a more accessible entrance at the back. With your heart in your mouth you kept listening, the flashbacks of that frightening night started popping up in your mind: you didn't look for a back entrance, that time. You didn't have enough time. Michael had blocked you at the front door that night, the same door that was now resisting even the break-in attempts. The voice on the left shouted, asking the other person with him if he had already started filming. Filming?!? Do the police film the raids? Another lightning, another thunder, and the voice on the right swore, a dull sound followed him and called his friend still at the front door, his triumphant tone made you realize that the back door had opened.  
He was inside.  
Someone was inside, someone else besides you and Michael was in that abandoned house and now you could signal your presence, you could get free. You wanted to scream, alarm them, but your every impulse seemed to be stuck in your chest. It wasn't wise, it wasn't safe. An irrational dismay froze you, the blind terror of breaking your promise to Michael and suffering the consequences of your betrayal. Besides, you didn't have a plan. Those voices didn't seem to belong to policemen, how could they save you? How could you risk it all without being sure that these people could really help you? And Michael? Which way did he go? Left or right? If only you had an idea of where he was, maybe you could have tried to escape by sneaking out to the other side. Other painful flashbacks assaulted your mind, his deep and husky voice kept repeating that word in your mind over and over again, your body completely stuck with terror. Michael would have punished you, like he did that night, like he did in your nightmare.

You were completely in the clutches of horror, your attention was captured by the voice on the right which again called the voice on the left, urging him to reach him and start filming, the voice on the left seemed to ignore him, too focused on picking the lock. The voice on the right muttered something unintelligible, the voice on the left swore, the frustration in its tone indicated that he was giving up on breaking the lock. Another lightning, another thunder. Those weren't policemen and you didn't know how to safely signal your presence to them, the danger lurking. You stared into space, to the left, towards the voice announcing he was going round the house, but the voice on the right didn't answer. The voice on the left seemed to stop pacing to stop right under your window, but you couldn't open it, you couldn't look out, you couldn't raise an alarm. He shouted to his friend that there were even bars on a window - yes, he was right under your window - and, jokingly, he asked him if haunting spirits really needed locked locks and barred windows. No, those weren't policemen. Of all the people, you had to be found by two guys chasing ghosts and filming raids and explorations in abandoned houses. A deep despair weighed down your heart, but it was something else that was frightening you more deeply: the voice on the right kept not answering. The footsteps from under your window resumed and got lost in the howling wind, soon they would have reached the back door. Your face stood a few inches from the ajar door of your room, your eyes wandered aimlessly in the darkness before you, your ears stretched out to any sound other than the storm outside. The voice on the left spoke again, it was on the right now, he was walking through the back door:

"Hey, man, what the fuck--"

The voice was interrupted, broken, strangled and desperate sounds got lost in the umpteenth roar of the storm, something heavy fell, rolling on the floor, there seemed to be a short scuffle. Your breath caught in your throat, your hands flew to your mouth, pressing it shut, a lightning reflected in your wide open and terrified eyes. And you were still motionless. A wet sound, followed by a creaking one. Another thump against a hard surface, then a blurred, muffled sound. Short, faint gasps and then nothing else. Silence. Broken only by the howling wind and the rumbling thunders.

The still-air became piercing, your body suspended, your mind seemed to split. Your hands were still pressing against your mouth, your eyes staring at the hallway enveloped in darkness. Grueling, endless seconds that turned into minutes, each sound vanished in the stormy wind. A buzz began to hiss in the distance, somewhere in your mind, a slight, involuntary twitch made your eyes flicker up. Your wide eyes stared at the railing of the stairs, your ears still listening while that other part of you was already floating away. Your breath leapt at the sight of a shadow slowly stretching towards the hallway, a dark silhouette, silently climbing the stairs, began to emerge from the railing. You blinked, your eyes focused, you regained your consciousness. The silhouette took shape, it was on the hallway, approaching you, still at the ajar door, with your hands still pressed to your mouth. Your breath barely hitched and Michael stopped right in front of you, his looming figure towering imposing and imperious over you. Your wide eyes remained fixed on the black slits of his mask, your vision wavered. Michael tilted his head, stood looking at you; then slowly he lifted his hands, bringing them to his face; he grabbed his mask and pulled it off in front of you, revealing his impassive face and those eyes - the same eyes from that dreadful night - that sank into yours. They were ferocious and affectionate and seemed to clench your heart into a steel grip, piercing you straight into your very soul.

He dropped his mask on the floor and his hands grabbed yours, freeing your mouth. The harsh buzz became more shrill and deafening in your mind, your heart started pounding in your chest and the nausea resurfaced in your stomach. Michael, without ever taking his eyes off yours, put your hands on his shoulders and closed in on you. Strong fingers wove their way into your hair up to your scalp, while his other hand, wrapping you around your waist, slowly pulled you to him, until your pelvis joined. The hand wrapped in your hair pulled your head back, the other lifted your shirt and rested on your naked butt, holding you pressed against his pelvis, the warm bulge between his legs pushing against your bare pubis. Michael's face met yours, his lashes lowered on his eyes and, without ever taking his languid gaze off yours, he kissed you. The buzz in your mind seemed to run through you entirely, tearing you apart, your legs about to collapse beneath you.

Accomplice to murder.

Michael smiled against your lips, his tongue slipped out and licked your slightly open mouth before he shoved it inside you; the hand in your hair pushed your face against his, the one on your butt eagerly fondled your flesh. Michael began rutting against you while shoving his tongue down your throat. You clung to his shoulders and closed your eyes, while the crumbling pieces of your mind were scattering like grains of sand in the wind. You could have screamed, alarmed those poor kids, told them to run away and call the police. You could have saved their lives, or at least one of them. But no. You were too scared, you haven't been able to react, you didn't have a plan. All this time you have been waiting for someone to break down the door, but you never thought about what YOU could have done to help whoever arrived. Those two simple unaware guys weren't the trained policemen you had always imagined, they didn't give you any guarantees of success and you didn't want to risk your survival without having in return the certainty of being rescued immediately after, you didn't want to risk suffering Michael's fury, his punishment. His devastating power over you. You were too afraid of Michael. You were sure he would have caught them even if they escaped alarmed by your screams and so you didn't even try. Just one scream, just one sound, and you would have betrayed his trust, the one you had been earning for a long time with so much suffering. But now? Now your hands were dripping with blood as much as his. Now he was satisfied, you had chosen him over a chance to escape. You had chosen him over yourself. You covered up for him with your silence. You truly kept your promise.

You passed his test - perhaps the most important - but you made those two innocent boys pay the highest price.

A nauseating pit filled your abdomen, you felt pierced and torn apart, far worse than you had been in your nightmare.

Accomplice to murder.

Assassin. This was what you had become to survive. An aching despair completely pervaded you, you felt like a monster. Just like him. You could not but belong to him.

You opened your eyes again, a thunder echoed in the room, your watery eyes met the gaze of the man who was kissing and hugging you passionately. You were his accomplice, his embrace was suffocating and with no escape, just like the indissoluble bond between you and him. He owned you, he dominated you, and all you deserved was this Curse.  
Michael must have felt that you were zoning out from everything entirely and, although he seemed to really like the spectacle of your piercing, heartbreaking emotions reflecting in your lost gaze, he wanted you with him, in that very moment, in that new phase. In that new beginning together. He had first obtained your subjugation, then your small, affectionate gestures towards him and now, finally, the renunciation of your desire for freedom, of your own person. You had chosen him over your conscience, you had chosen to be his accomplice. You were finally his - completely and totally his.

A lightning pierced the darkness and Michael, without ever interrupting your kiss, shoved you, making you take a few steps back; and he shoved you again, firmly, until your back was flat against the wall. He pulled away from your lips and, giving you a quick and fiery glance, he grabbed your shirt and took it off, leaving you completely naked and trapped between his body and the wall. He tossed away your shirt and grabbed his zip, pulling it down and shrugging the sleeves off of his shoulders impatiently; he let them dangle along his hips and pulled his boxer shorts down, his hard cock bounced out, twitching with need. Your vision wavered, you groaned almost in fear at his sudden, overwhelming passion that alone filled the whole room, a passion fueled by your sense of extreme failure as a human being. The feelings of guilt and unworthiness sank their poisonous claws into your purest essence, as Michael's fingers sank into your thighs; he lifted you as if you had no weight, pressing you against the wall and hooking your legs around his midsection. Your hands instinctively clung more strongly to his broad shoulders, while your mind kept repeating how much your survival instincts had turned you into something you weren't. Michael rubbed against you, his hard cock, slipping between your damp labia, rubbed against your clit, got coated with your fluids, but your mind was far from your body, further and further away. Michael pressed his face against your cheek, nuzzling you, breathing in your scent deeply, while you were floating away, more and more distant. You leaned on him, your whole body like a dead weight waiting to be devoured by the flames of his passion; you just wanted him to be over with it as soon as possible, so as to encase yourself in your loneliness, in your delirium, in your pain. You wanted to isolate yourself, forget everything, no more thinking, no more feeling. A thunder echoed violently, partially awakening you from your trance state, and only then did you realize that Michael had stopped. And he was looking at you. His warm breath panted on your cheek. He wanted you with him. Your gaze wavered, another lightning reflected within it, your lost eyes met his, piercing, burning. And he tilted his head.

Taking a deep breath, Michael pulled you off the wall, instinctively you held on to him to not fall backwards and, keeping you tightly pressed against his body, he sat on the bed with you on his lap. His eyes remained fixed on yours as he leaned slightly backwards, dragging himself up on the bed and keeping you pressed to him on his lap. Still stunned, you followed his movements, the confusion in your eyes, the determination in his. As his hand left your body, his arm, brought back, bent and Michael remained leaning on his forearm with you still straddling him, his tight fist on the sheets trembled only for a moment, betraying a kind of conflicting resistance within him. His other hand wandered over your ass and Michael, never taking his piercing eyes from yours, groped your flesh and gestured you to move up and down on his cock. Your sense of dizziness was forcefully dispelled by the disbelief that Michael had just instilled in you:

Why did he want you to stay on top of him?

All this time, Michael had never taken you this way. His dominant attitude, the absolute predator in him, you thought. The position in which he was now symbolized vulnerability, passivity, it was YOUR position towards him, always and however, that of the subjugated and helpless prey, left at the mercy of its predator. This unlikely role reversal came just now, right after what happened, and it couldn't be a coincidence. You knew - you felt - that this role reversal was only apparent, it was aiming at something else. The slight tremble in his clenched fist, the determination in his burning and piercing gaze, the stiffness of his body: Michael didn't like lying under you, he didn't like that role, but he seemed to want to make an exception anyway. He had a goal.

You swallowed the bitterness in your throat, your mind forcefully drawn back to reality. With him.

And then you understood why he was putting you in charge.

The horror and disgust that you had just caused yourself left you even more vulnerable and helpless, totally dismantled, totally destroyed. You were growing more disconnected from reality, you were getting lost in the dark. You were on the edge of a precipice and you were just about to fall down into the abyss. But Michael, reaching out and grabbing you in time, now caught all your attention, made the real difference between falling down or staying up, between death and life. In this way, in those delicate moments, only he existed for you, your mind returned to focus only and exclusively on him, who was absorbing all the energy of that moment.  
And, by leaving you on top of him and free to satisfy yourself with him as you pleased, he surprised you and catalyzed your attention, the exceptional nature of this gesture gave you the illusion of being rewarded for having behaved well, for having chosen him over your chance to escape or to save someone else's life. Taking advantage of your total devastation, this unusual choice of his and his apparent ease was surely aiming to give you a sense of comfort, of encouragement.

Of normality.

Killing was normal. Being faithful to him was normal.  
You behaved so good in his eyes, after all, you deserved to be in charge, for once. But in reality you had no power, you didn't feel strong - you were afraid even of your nightmares by now - and he knew this, so he could grant you this "reward". Even if he was giving you a lead role for once, he knew that you would have never been able to take advantage of it. This would have only strengthen your true roles, your bond, leaving you even more subjugated and devoted to him. Completely in his power. Paradoxically, in fact, by giving you this momentary role of illusory command right after what had just happened, Michael kept you focused on him and on his apparent generosity towards you, preventing you from being swallowed up by your moral scruples and, by abusing them, he manipulated them to his advantage. Leaving you with the impression that you made the right decision, reinforced by his gesture so special to you, Michael would have made you feel grateful to him, reassured and rewarded for keeping your promise, and you would have ignored that the only real result would have been an even more powerful and influential Michael on you. You would have been completely brainwashed.  
The reward was smoke and mirrors.

Michael was manipulating you again.

But you still had that advantage of yours. He didn't know that you had long understood what his ultimate goal was. Despite everything, you were still an unidentified actress.

A small spark rekindled in you, a burst of lucidity in the painful and dark chaos of your mind. Your eyes traveled along Michael's body, illuminated by the flashes of lightning outside, and returned to look at his piercing eyes; you breathed deeply, you pulled yourself together, you remembered what might have been the last battle of your life. You would have played along, you had to. Now more than ever.

Hesitant and never daring to break eye contact, you crawled on him and adjusted your position; one of your hands gently rested on his pectorals, you levered your legs to lift your pelvis on his, keeping it raised for a few seconds. A thunder echoed in the distance, your other hand sneaked to Michael's cock; your fingers wrapped around its length, your gentle, trembling touch seemed to still ask for his permission even though he himself had put you in that position. Michael squinted his eyes and, without ever breaking your eye contact, slowly leaned back, lying completely on his back. You couldn't help the slight, dangerous thrill that stirred in your stomach, how your breath remained caught in your throat, at the sight of Michael lying beneath you.

You begged your mind to wait to torment you with guilt and you tried to keep all your focus on him. You lined up his hard cock against your entrance and returned to balance your weight on him, his hand on your ass betrayed his trepidation by squeezing your flesh. You tried to stay focused, to keep your thoughts at bay, you resumed breathing and, placing both your hands on his broad chest, you began to roll your hips, letting his cock slip between your folds. He slightly groaned, his inner conflict between letting you do and wildly assaulting you seemed much more evident now that you were a little more lucid. You rolled your hips, rubbing against him and closed your eyes, the sensations of the plump, velvety skin of his hard and warm cock against your pussy were amplified, the flame began to heat your abdomen. Another thunder and you gasped, long and strong fingers wrapped around your neck and you reopened your eyes in fear, searching for his. But Michael was watching your naked body in front of him, the way your hips rolled gently, the way your nipples hardened as your arousal grew.

His hungry gaze returned to pierce your eyes, his hand around your neck tightened a little more, his need to assault you seemed to get stronger and stronger. Without waiting any longer, you slightly raised your pelvis and, using one hand, you lined up his cock under you, his fat tip throbbing against your soaked entrance. Putting your hands back on him, you looked at him again, your eyes seemed to ask his permission again; then, before his steady gaze, you started to relax your legs and, holding your breath, you sank down onto his cock. An inevitable moan escaped your lips, your head fell back, your walls gradually shaped around him to let him in. The hand on your butt squeezed, pulled the skin taut, while the one around your neck held you in place. You moved your hips, you adjusted the angle of penetration, you looked at him again with pleading eyes, your mouth slightly open and his fingers dug deeper into the skin of your ass. You rolled your hips, arched your back and his eyes went back to your naked breasts in front of him, how your core contracted as his cock was spreading your pussy open more and more, impaling you from the inside.  
A groan escaped from Michael's lips and a first wave of pleasure swept through you, your first clenches tightened around his cock, the familiar pressure was building in your depths. Still rolling, you started slightly bouncing on him, your every movement looking for the perfect spot inside you. As you perfectly angled yourself, you started bouncing harder, again and again. Michael grunted, his cock twitched, your pussy getting wetter and thirstier.

You kept grinding and bouncing on him, every movement was intense, making you more and more excited, more and more eager. Michael pulled the skin of your ass again, his cock was rubbing harder against your hot, damp walls; he grunted and shortly after he began to push inside you, his every thrust crashing into your sweet spot, perfectly in sync with your rhythm.  
The pressure inside you increased, you felt yourself nearing your own end. Another lightning and your skin glistened with sweat. You kept moving on him, every thrust and his cock seemed to get bigger and harder, and you wanted to suck every inch of that abomination into your depths. You panted and with each bounce on his cock, with each powerful thrust he pushed inside you, you were more and more quivering. The squeaking of the bed accompanied your labored breaths, covered only by the thunders in the distance. Another jolt of pleasure ran through you, your pussy tightened around his cock again, your mind more and more clouded, the storm more and more distant; the hand around your neck tightened and pulled you forward, making you lose your balance, your hands on his chest stopped your fall, your eyes shot open with the sudden change of position. Michael kept holding you by your neck, his eyes dizzy with pleasure were looking straight into yours.  
Judging by that look, all in all Michael seemed to have enjoyed what he had just experienced. But he had his needs.  
You inhaled deeply and kept moving and bouncing harder on him, the new position seemed to widen even more the contours of your hole, your clit free to rub and press against his warm pubis. The pressure inside you became unbearable, another thrill of pleasure crossed you, you groaned on his face and the hand around your neck let go of its grip and joined the other one on your butt. You were tremendously close, it didn't take too much to make you snap. Michael knew it, too. In fact, he stretched his face towards yours and you, with a frighteningly automatic gesture, obeyed him and filled the distance, allowing him to kiss you. You breathed against his lips and, as his hands, squeezing your butt, followed and intensified your movements on his cock, the spring in your core you snapped. Moaning against his lips, you clung to him while your hips were moving frantically on him. You felt the wave of pleasure swell inside you and, with devastating, uncontrollable power, the wave rushed towards you and crashed, completely overwhelming you. You trembled and moaned without restraint against those lips that were kissing you passionately, your pussy shamelessly clenching around his huge cock, your fingers harpooned to his strong muscles covered only by his black shirt, while your eyes got lost behind your eyelids. The strong, tight clenches of your pussy greedily sucked Michael's cock and he, grunting, regained full control over you so as to seek his release inside of you as soon as possible. With an iron grip, his hands squeezed your butt tightly, slamming it down onto his cock and forcing you to meet his every thrust, again and again, continuing to brutally fuck you through your orgasm. Michael pressed his mouth against yours and, biting your bottom lip, he stiffened and kept you tight against him. Then he grunted and, trembling, released loads of warm cum inside of you, flooding your walls, while the excess was already squirting out of your abused hole.

Several minutes had passed, your calm breaths were warm on each other's skin. The muffled howls of the wind seemed to have blown the storm away, thunders were just distant muffled rumblings. You were still lying on Michael's body, his heartbeat calm and steady, his hands still keeping your ass against him. You moved a little, so that you could make his now softened cock slip out, his hands blindly followed your hips; then you tried to slid off of him, but his hands stopped you instantly, his firm grip was a direct warning that needed no words. You barely lifted your head, your eyes sought his, already intent on looking at you. His gaze remained fixed on yours, it didn't even waver and you, realizing that you weren't allowed to change position, lowered your head and rested it gently on his chest. His hands crawled down from your butt and slipped under you; despite the little space, he managed to tuck his cock back into his boxer briefs and then he wrapped his arms around your waist with a relaxed grip. You remained focused on the steady sound of his heartbeat, it felt almost hypnotic, while the wind outside kept softly blowing. Stunned by the bliss of the afterglow and the sleep that weighed down your eyelids, you closed your eyes and thought again about what happened.

On a more lucid, purely rational and emotionless analysis, perhaps, keeping silence during that intrusion was the only thing you could really do to survive, the most reasonable thing, however humanly deplorable: there was no way to properly alert the two boys and you knew Michael wouldn't let them escape for any reason. He had already decided they had to die, and Michael always got what he wanted. You were terrified, everything had happened too fast and your mind was like blocked, stuck, you didn't even want to imagine what could have happened if you had betrayed him. It wouldn't take him long to realize that you had been faking it with him, that you were even trying to use your bond - the one HE had chosen for the both of you - against him. Would he really have killed you in that case? You even came to think that he could take revenge on your loved ones, on your boyfriend, perhaps bringing their severed heads to you as a trophy and a warning, so as to punish you for pretending to reciprocate him and prove to you that resisting him or running away from him was useless, and that if he couldn't have you, no one else could.

The oblivion of sleep enveloped your thoughts and dulled your emotions, Michael's calm breathing was all you heard. No, you couldn't have done anything else. You've been surviving for too long and, despite the ferocity of your guilt, it was logical to think that you didn't want to risk in vain. You weren't trying to console yourself, you weren't trying to justify yourself. You didn't even feel worthy to ask for forgiveness. But you were determined, desperately determined not to succumb in your battle. You were determined to follow the only feeble lights left.

Even though they were dark lights.

You didn't know how yet, you didn't know when yet, but you would have got out of that house. One way or another. Especially now that you knew - you felt - that you had gained a higher level of trust from Michael. You would have done it for yourself, for the people you loved, for the people who would have mourned those two poor innocent kids. And their death wouldn't have been completely in vain. Darkness danced in your closed burning eyes, your mind floated away. Your deep guilt was only partially deadened by the idea of somehow managing to do what was right, the last thought before your remaining glimmer of consciousness gradually faded into darkness.

-

When you woke up, the pain in your back and legs caught your attention, the result of the uncomfortable position in which you had slept. Still numb from sleep, you tried to move, but you winced in fear realizing that his hands were still wrapped around your waist: you had slept on Michael's body all night and he was still there with you. It had never happened that he was with you at your awakening. The events of last night had really been important then. At the very thought of what had happened, new nausea stirred in your stomach, but you tried to keep control and, looking at him through the locks of your disheveled hair, you stammered an uncertain good morning. He didn't reply, he never did. Your eyes wandered aimlessly, you were still naked and dirty and, even if you felt uncomfortable, you were too afraid to move under his hands still around your waist. Your eyes returned to his, still intent on staring at the ceiling, his breathing being the only thing that prevented you from mistaking him for a statue.

"Michael, I-- Please, I need to go to the bathroom."

No response, no reaction. You hesitantly tried to crawl away, his hands remained resting loosely on your hips, but they didn't resist. You took it as a good sign. Never taking your eyes off his, you managed to slid off his body without his protests and got out of bed, your embarrassment at being still completely naked in front of him seemed to fill the entire room. You turned away from him, headed unsure for the bathroom, and a shiver ran down your spine. You felt his gaze on you and you knew you couldn't resist his silent order to turn to look at him much longer. With unsteady legs, you entered the bathroom, your hand on the doorknob and, with bated breath, you turned and looked at him. Michael was still lying, motionless, but his eyes were fixed on you. You felt exposed, self-conscious, you didn't want to be looked at, but you knew that your will meant nothing. You swallowed and, with a last meek glance, you bowed your head as if silently asking permission. With your eyes down, you closed the bathroom door in front of you, hoping that he would have given you at least that little bit of privacy.

Your forehead was almost leaning against the closed door, your ears listening, but not a single sound came from the bedroom. You concluded that, if Michael wanted to invade you even in that privacy, it wouldn't have been the bathroom door to stop him so, even if you felt awkward, you set about doing your morning routine.

Your shower purposely lasted longer than usual and, even though you had finished everything for a long while now, you were still standing behind the closed bathroom door. You took a deep breath and hesitantly reopened it. But Michael was gone and you, still naked, couldn't help but sigh with relief. You walked quickly to his collection of your clothes and put on a clean pair of panties and an old baggy tank top. As you were about to tidy up your room as best you could, however, the door slowly opened. Your gaze followed its creaking, meeting the imposing figure of Michael: he was wearing his mask again, his mechanic overalls perfectly rearranged; you looked at his hands, expecting to see them holding the usual tray, but it was not so. His hands were empty and his arms hung plainly at his sides. You felt quite surprised, your questioning gaze tried to look through the black eye slits. Michael stood still in the doorway, his breathing was regular and almost imperceptible, his eyes were hidden behind the darkness of his mask, but you could clearly feel his gaze on you.  
He slightly moved away from the door, as if he wanted to free the passage, your confused look followed him carefully. Staring at you, Michael tilted his head and, right after, motioned for you to come closer. You blinked, your heart leapt and, with slight uncertainty, you walked towards him until you reached him and stopped at the doorway. He kept staring at you, his looming figure towering over yours, his chest rising and sinking with each breath. Your eyes flickered in his gaze, you cast a quick glance at the hallway and then back to Michael, you almost hoped he would have talked to you so that you could understand his intentions. But the brooding silence kept hovering around you, a silence thickened even more by your shaking uncertainty.

You swallowed, you tried to think of something to say to him, but you didn't have the time: Michael in fact began to move slowly towards you and, without ever taking his gaze from yours, he used the whole size of his body to limit your space, caging you between his broad chest and the doorjamb, so as to push you to walk forward. Another jolt of excitement crossed you, a stirring pooled in your stomach, you almost couldn't believe what was happening.

For the first time, Michael was allowing you out of your room.


	5. Bonds (part 2): Shades Of Night

You swallowed, you tried to think of something to say to him, but you didn't have the time: Michael in fact began to move slowly towards you and, without ever taking his gaze from yours, he used the whole size of his body to limit your space, caging you between his broad chest and the doorjamb, so as to push you to walk forward. Another jolt of excitement crossed you, a stirring pooled in your stomach, you almost couldn't believe what was happening.

For the first time, Michael was allowing you out of your room.

Your heart was pounding and, clenching your jaw, you watched Michael walk next to you and make your way to the short flight of stairs. Your breathing quickened and you looked again in front of you, your hands shaking with agitation. You were finally out of your room and it wasn't happening as horribly as it did last time. Swallowing again, the painful memories of that terrible night flashed before your eyes and a rush of fear made you briefly short of breath. Your hand landed on the old railing, you cast a quick glance at Michael and composed yourself. This was your chance to better study the place where you were, to figure out what you could do to get back free. You had to stay calm, attentive, you had to make the most of this opportunity.

Michael remained silently next to you while, walking down the stairs, he was going with you to the lower floor: you looked again at the main door whose lock had resisted both your tugs of that night and the boy’s break-in attempts last night, the boarded-up windows whose beams you tried to remove with your bare hands, the first glimpses of the old kitchen furniture inside which you had thought of looking for some useful tools. And on the wall in front of you, among its cracks devoured by climbing plants, there were still the gashes caused by Michael's terrifying display of fury, after he had returned from the world of the dead only to keep you with him. You swallowed again, fear turned to nausea in your stomach, and you looked down, your attention caught again by the old rusty ventilation grid, by the same branch of that plant that had mockingly caressed your face while Michael was keeping you pressed to the floor with one foot on your back: the plant was still in bloom, weighed down by plenty of its blackish berries, and still swayed in the wind, just as it did that night. You couldn't help but think that that plant now seemed to welcome you back.

You sligthly shook your head, you ordered yourself to go back to reality, to stay focused. As soon as you arrived at the lower floor, Michael stopped and turned to your face, you immediately returned his gaze and he, after a few seconds, gave you a slight nod towards the kitchen; you looked in the direction of his nod, behind his body, and on an old little table there was your meal. Realizing that Michael wanted you to have breakfast in the kitchen and no longer in your room, you had the confirmation that this wasn't just a reward for you, but also a new beginning for him, for your life together. Your lips slightly parted, your eyes, wide and incredulous, sought his, finally visible behind the darkness of the eye slits thanks to a better light conditions in the room. Your chest rose and fell visibly, your eyes fluttered and you, in a surge of emotion you couldn't control, couldn't help but immediately whisper a sincere "Thank you."

Michael stared at the trepidation in your eyes, but the reaction he gave you was as impassive as the expression on his mask; then, moving slightly away from you, he motioned for you to sit at the table and you, nodding, obeyed. You took your seat, your eyes low and uncertain, Michael behind you, hidden from your eyes. You took a look at your frugal meal, noticed how the level of honey in the usual jar had lowered, making you think that Michael probably had breakfast before you. Silence hovered, broken only by his breathing somewhere behind you and, embarrassed and with still trembling hands, you began to eat. You listened, you tried to understand what Michael was doing, but you didn't want to turn your head. Your gaze returned to look in front of you, your embarrassment increased, the silence almost oppressive. A daily scene, intimate, normal, and yet so strange.  
So wrong.

You tried to look just over your shoulder, you tried to talk to Michael, to pretend a nonchalance that wasn't there, but nothing came to mind. You wanted to look behind you, look for the back door, get a more detailed idea of where you were, but all you were allowed to see were the cracks in the walls, the old kitchen cupboards in front of you and the old broken ventilation grid. You kept chewing as quietly as possible, trying to hear Michael's breath, but everything was silence. Deep, incomprehensible silence.  
You tried to stay as casual as possible, you looked back at the branch of the plant that had slipped into the house from the broken grid. In the light, you could finally notice all its shades. You stared at the dull purple of its bell-shaped, elegant flowers, and you almost zoned out. The wind, blowing through the grid, made the branch swing lazily in the little space available, plenty of berries, as big as cherries, black and shiny, weighed down its stem, making it swing in a hypnotic oscillatory movement. You felt more and more rapt, more and more distant from that embarrassment, as all your attention was caught more and more by the beauty of those scattered flowers, by the sheen of those black berries, in such stark contrast to the pale green of its ovate leaves. You narrowed your eyes, your head slightly leaned forward and, out of the blue, the revelation. You had already seen that plant before, you somehow knew that plant. Those beautiful flowers, those inviting blueberry-like berries: in front of you was a branch of Atropa belladonna, one of the most poisonous and deadly plants in the world!

You almost choked, swallowing in the middle of your realization, and a rush of excitement almost made you jump in your chair. Coughing slightly, you automatically looked over your shoulder, the irrational fear that Michael might have read the nature of the thoughts that had already begun to ran through your mind at the speed of light. Michael wasn't in your peripheral vision and you looked again at the branch of belladonna in front of you. Your heart was pounding and you struggled not to let your strong emotions shine through, while your excitement was flowing in the form of pure adrenaline through your veins. You forced yourself to breathe slowly and deeply, sedating your hyperventilation, you tried to keep up with the wild rush of your thoughts, with the plan that inevitably had already begun to take shape in your mind, almost as if it had always been there and was just waiting for you to find it.

All your eyes could see was that branch of deadly nightshade, it was like everything else was fading away. A handful of those berries would have been enough to kill an adult. You thought back to your situation, to the people you loved, to the death of those two boys and a growing determination pressed into your chest. Only dust remained of the rock you once were, but suddenly you realized that any rock, from the smallest to the largest, was still born from dust. Your plan was taking shape more and more clearly, but you needed to calm down, to control yourself, so that you could be through every little detail. Everything had to be thought out, analyzed, calculated. You could do it. Hope washed over you like a river in flood, everything was happening too fast, and you couldn't afford to slip up. Poison was the most devious of weapons, it could go unnoticed, and you too had to deviously go unnoticed if you really wanted to survive. You had waited a long time for someone to break through the door but, in the light of what happened and what could happen now thanks to that providential plant, you understood that the only person who could break through the door was yourself.

The hairs on the back of your head stood up and you winced, feeling Michael's presence behind you. You snapped and turned quickly to him, who was already staring at you. Panic stirred in your stomach, you almost felt you were going to pass out, but you kept it together and, without thinking too much, you tried to divert his attention from your real thoughts:

"T-Thank you, Michael, thank you for bringing me here."

He stood still looking at you, nothing about him betrayed the slightest reaction. Your sight wavered, nervousness shook you to the core, and you stammered again:

"T-there's more light in the kitchen and it's n-nice to eat my lunch here..."

You blinked nervously, you had to keep your ramblings at bay or else you could have made some mistake you couldn't afford. The corners of your mouth lifted with a nervous twitch that made your fake smile more similar to a grimace. Michael watched you closely, his head tilted in front of that new expression drawn on your face. You swallowed, you realized that he had never received your smile - if that grimace could be called a smile - and you hoped that the idea of owning this new gesture of yours might spur him to get you out of your room more often. You dared to speak again, your obvious agitation made your voice tremble:

"T-Thanks for the breakfast, Michael. I-I could d-do the washing up if you want."

You made an effort to keep constant that grimace that only vaguely could resemble a smile; Michael stood still, silence was his only response, but by the way his head remained tilted, he seemed to be considering your suggestion. For the first time you had almost smiled at him. He seemed intrigued, interested. Shortly after, Michael slowly began to move, the position of his body inviting you to stand up. The corners of your mouth stopped twitching, your lips slightly parted, your eyes wandered uncertain. With trembling legs, you stood up, grabbed the few things you could wash and, turning to Michael, you prepared to move between him and your chair, so as to walk around the little table and go to the sink. But your gaze couldn't resist your curiosity and wandered behind Michael's body, your need to discover the exact location of the back door was irresistible. To your utter horror, however, you jumped and screamed in fear when your gaze landed on the body of one of the two boys: dangling from the wall, pierced through his chest, Michael's knife was the only thing that prevented the body from falling to the floor, together with the other corpse. You immediately closed your eyes, but that horror was now etched in your mind, your moans escaped your quivering lips, you went weak at the knees. New nausea turned your stomach, feelings of guilt and disgust towards yourself seemed to mercilessly twist your insides.

Michael grabbed your hands, stopping their trembling, and you reopened your eyes; although you were still visibly shaken, you obeyed, you apologized and you pulled yourself together as best you could, walking mindlessly towards the sink. You put down the tableware, you looked for some detergent, a sponge, every movement almost automatic, even though you had no idea where all those things were. The painful flow of your thoughts and emotions detached you from reality for several seconds, perhaps even minutes, until you forced yourself to bring together all your suffering and disgust into your determination. The two boys were dead, you couldn't bring them back to life, and all you could do was get their killer caught. You too, his accomplice, would have paid your debt to justice; once you got out of that house you would have surrendered, but now you had to stay focused, so as to not undo everything that had happened. Your eyes went back to looking at what was in front of you and you were almost surprised to see your own hands washing the dishes, to smell the detergent filling your nostrils. You were almost done when you sensed some strange movements behind you. A wet and creaking sound, immediately followed by a dull thud. You winced, you understood: Michael had pulled out his knife, that boy, once full of life, had just fallen to the floor like a sack of potatoes, dead, murdered in cold blood while you were keeping silence, and the nausea turned your stomach once again. You stifled your urge to cry, you rinsed the last dish from your breakfast, when Michael's body hit your back. You froze and his chest pressed against you, his breathing slightly heavier. You turned off the water tap, while his hand encircled your waist and kept you pressed against him. You swallowed, you tried to calm your breath and Michael's other hand entered your field of vision: he was wielding his bloody knife and, turning it in front of you, let your eyes look at its blade completely stained with blood. Nausea again, the bitter knot of a cry that couldn't freely burst again, while Michael, still holding you close, handed you his knife: you had to wash it. Distraught and resigned, you offered your palm and Michael rested the bloody blade on it, your caution in grasping it was all that kept you from succumbing to the increasingly deafening buzz in your ears. He let go of the handle and wrapped also his other hand around your waist, you obediently reopened the tap, let the water flow on the blade. Soon after you grabbed the sponge again and started scrubbing, washing that innocent blood off the blade and thinking that nothing could ever wash it from your conscience.  
Michael stood looking at you and, when he was satisfied with the result, he held out his hand again and you handed him the knife by the handle. He grabbed it and slowly lifted it to your face, the smell of blood still in your nose. Michael slipped the tip of his knife under one of your straps, slightly cutting it, and then he slid its flat side along your neck. You closed your eyes, you tried to control your breathe, another wave of nausea overcame you. Michael pulled his knife away and turned you around, your tense face revealed to his eyes, your body trapped between his body in front of you and the sink behind you. The hand around your waist pulled you closer to him, his hips rolled into yours, the warmth of his crotch against yours. You reopened your eyes and watched him just as his head, tilting, closed in on you and dipped into the side of your neck. He took a deep breath of your scent and the shiver that ran through you intensified the nauseating sensations in your stomach. Michael pushed a knee between your legs and, lowering down on you, allowed your gaze to see over his shoulders; as soon as your attention was caught by the two bodies lying dead and covered in blood on the floor in front of the back door, the nausea seemed to turn into vomit and you, in a panic, couldn't help but push Michael away from you:

"Michael, please, wait, I--"

Michael stopped, clearly surprised by your unexpected resistance, but your alarmed tone made him realize that your resistance wasn't caused by his advances, but by reasons still unknown to him.

"I need to go to the bathroom, I'm about to--"

You pressed your hands against your mouth, a first retching interrupted your stutter. Michael loosened his grip on you, looked at you with curiosity and you, without thinking twice, squirmed and slipped away from his loose grip, rushing up the stairs and into the bathroom of your room.  
Michael didn't even try to stop you, certain that you weren't trying to run away from him, but rather, he just seemed intrigued by your new and sudden reaction. A few seconds later, in fact, he could already hear you slam open the door and kneel in the bathroom, while your nausea, intensified by the horror you had just seen and by the somatization of your ever-growing feelings of guilt and unworthiness, had turned into the uncontrollable urgent need to throw up.

-

How long could you endure? That's the question you repeated to yourself.

Several minutes had passed since you stopped throwing up, and you were still alone in the bathroom, still curled up on the floor, your eyes empty, your mind lost elsewhere. At least the nausea was gone.  
Since this whole hellish thing started, all you had done was endure. Then, you also had to start pretending, and gradually the difference between reality and pretence became more and more faded, more and more twisted. The result was the chaotic devastation within you, a devastation that you couldn't even express, a devastation from which you couldn't gain even a little respite. You endured, swallowed, brooded, put yourself aside: the more your mind required energy, the more your body somatized. And you grew weaker and weaker. Your nausea had even turned into vomit: clearly your body was showing signs of failure, was about to reach its breaking point. How long could you still endure?  
You thought back to the deadly nightshade plant, to the stages of your plan, and gradually you regained some more mental clarity. And, although you preferred to have more time to be able to plan everything to the last detail, you knew that your time was running out. Now you were alone, now you had to think of everything. And all this because now the back door was broken into.

Michael had allowed you to leave your room, to sit at the table, to wash dishes; in all likelihood, he would have let you out more often, so as to enjoy all those little gestures of yours that he had only been spying from the windows of your house for who knows how long. You would have gone back to doing all your normal, daily stuff, and you would have done it only with him, only for him. This new freedom that he had granted you was proof that he felt more self-confident, that he felt you belonged to him deeper and deeper.  
But that was not all. In fact, he would have made you come back to that kitchen very soon, so as to give you the deeper illusion that your situation was normal, manipulating you more and more subtly so as to make his idea of life as a couple with you real. It was part of his plan. Instead, you would have taken those poisonous berries, poisoning him in an equally subtle, imperceptible way, and then you would have played the hardest part of your plan. You would have preferred to wait, calculate every unexpected event, every detail, but there was no time. As self-confident as Michael might have felt, you doubted he would go out to kill people, leaving you alone in the house, now that a door had been broken into. You were convinced that he couldn't risk so much yet because the sight of the two corpses had troubled you so much that you vomited. In your opinion, from his point of view, there was a risk that you could have regained some of your awareness, undoing his manipulation towards you. In the throes of a crisis, you could have run away while he was away from home and he would have needed to start all over again once he recaptured you. No, Michael was methodical, wary, he wouldn't risk so much. And you couldn't wait too long to take action. In fact, you needed to have both Michael always at home and that door still broken. You knew it was a high-risk game, but you really had nothing left to lose. By now you had decided, you wouldn't have waited any longer. The nightshade plant was a sign.

You got up, went out of the bathroom but decided to stay in the bedroom: Michael would have appreciated your obedience, your choice of wanting to receive his permission again to go out of your room rather than take the liberty of going rogue.  
You curled up at the foot of the bed and closed your eyes, taking advantage of that silence and your solitude to visualize all the stages of your plan. A tumult stirred in your stomach, your heartbeat accelerated and your anxiety was accompanied by an eerie, unexpected thrill: it awakened within you a strange, deep sadness, which you, however, still couldn't make sense of.

-

You had just finished hanging your washed clothes on the chain, now used as a makeshift clothesline for your laundry, when the door creaked open behind you. Your head turned in the direction of the sound, your tired look got sucked into the black eye slits of his mask. Michael stood motionless in the doorway, his massive figure seemed relaxed. With a slight tremble, you wished him the good evening, even though you knew he wouldn't have answered you. Michael in fact remained silent looking at you, his motionless body was still wrapped in the dim light of the hall. Soon after, however, Michael gave you a slight nod and you, after a short hesitation, approached him. The pale mask followed your every move, until you were right in front of him in the doorway. Michael tilted his head and you took a step forward, leaving your room behind you and, following his movements, you walked beside him towards the stairs: he was taking you downstairs again. You followed him in silence, obediently, occasionally glancing around. The faint bluish light of the sunset filtered more easily from the boarded up windows of the lower floor and between one wooden beam and the other you could glimpse the vegetation outside, noting how its regular lack in one spot gave the impression that there might be a path. Your heart leapt but you kept your excitement at bay. Once out of the broken door, you would have rushed to that point and, if there really was a path - probably the same one followed by the two guys - you would have followed it at breakneck speed, in the hope that it would have led you as far as possible from that house.

Meanwhile Michael had brought you to the kitchen, on the old counters there were still the dishes you had washed and even the honey jar from breakfast, along with a few pans and plates. Your questioning gaze instinctively sought Michael's one, his eyes, almost visible beyond the black holes, were already fixed on you. You looked again at the counters and then again at Michael's eyes: you hadn't had dinner yet and there wasn't the usual tray on the table, so you understood that he wanted you to cook.

"Do you.. want to have dinner together? I can prepare for both of us, if you want."

No response, apart from his insistent gaze. A bit embarrassed, you looked again at the counters and then at Michael:

"I need to see what's there... Um... You don't mind, do you, if I open--?"

You moved towards the counters, grabbed a random door but looked again at Michael before opening it, asking permission with your eyes. He stood still looking at you, you took his absence of reactions as a yes, then, turning your back to him, you knelt down and with obvious discomfort you began to rummage through the shelves, the unwelcome feeling of perceiving his eyes on you, the fear of doing something that he wouldn't have liked.

You tried to keep your focus on what you were seeing in the cabinets, trying to ignore the presence of the nightshade plant next to the counters: as tempting as it was, you couldn't pick its berries now, you had to wait for the right moment. After some remarks on the food supplies stored in the cabinet in front of you, you grabbed a bottle of oil, some tomatoes, a clove of garlic, even some typical grated cheese and a packet of pasta: apparently he had robbed the house of some true lover of Italian cuisine. You placed everything you needed on the kitchen counter, filled a small pot with water, placing it on the hob and you turned on the stove. In the meantime, you would have prepared the dressing for pasta, but you still needed a knife. As soon as you turned to ask Michael, you winced, finding your face almost bumping into his broad chest inches away from you. You swallowed, you tried to ignore his muffled and slightly heavier breathing.

"M-Michael, I-I need a knife for--"

But he was already handing you his knife, as if he had already foreseen your request.  
With a trembling hand, you grabbed it and thanked him, placing the knife on the counter. Michael leaned against you, his body radiating enormous heat, his heavy breathing was no longer muffled. You gulped again, your heart started beating faster. You turned on the tap, grabbed the tomatoes and quickly rinsed them one by one. You turned off the tap, grabbed the knife and a hand brushed your hair away, revealing your still bruised neck. You started cutting the tomatoes first in two, then in four, long fingers stroked your neck around the old bite wound. You had almost finished cutting all the tomatoes and, while his fingers were playing with the strap that he had only partially cut earlier, you tried to dissuade him by announcing that the condiment would have taken only a few minutes to be ready. But the hand kept caressing you, traveling from your shoulder along your ribs and down to your hip. You continued to prepare, arranged the portions of pasta to be cooked in a dish, you grabbed the old pan, poured a little oil into it, placed it on the other stove and started heating the oil. Michael followed your every movement, caressing your body and purposely limiting your space. You grabbed a clove of garlic, peeled it and let it fry briefly in the heated oil. Meanwhile Michael slipped his hand under your tank top and his calloused palm traveled up, along your smooth skin, cupping your breast. The oil sizzled, but it didn't cover the sound of his heavy breathing, so hot on your neck. He groped your breast, teased a nipple until it hardened, you stammered, still trying to dissuade him:

"M-Michael, please, I h-have to add the chopped tomatoes, or everything will burn."

He let you do it, without however stopping to touch you and, while you salted and stirred the tomatoes, his other hand encircled your waist. You turned up the heat, you needed to cook the tomatoes in the pan for a few minutes, but Michael started to push harder against you, shoving a knee between your legs. You looked at the pot on the stove, the water was heating up but not boiling yet, while the sauce was almost ready. You increased the heat under the pot in the illusion of stopping Michael, letting him think that the dinner was almost ready, but he, groping and holding you tightly, rolled his hips against you, his warm bulge against your ass was unmistakable and he didn't seem to want to wait any longer. You shuddered, you tried to calm him down by telling him that the water was about to boil, that you would have to cook pasta. But all this didn't seem to dissuade him at all. Quite the contrary. Michael leaned down on you, his face pressed against your cheek, as the hand around your waist slipped under your panties and grabbed your pubic hair. You winced, the hand that was groping you squeezed your breast harder, the one on your groin slipped lower. A thrill stirred in your stomach and he, deeply breathing in your scent, began to rub himself up against your butt. You gasped, another stirring pooled in your stomach and you, quickly covering the pan with a lid, turned off the stove, while looking at the pot with the water that never seemed to boil. Michael shifted to your neck, his tongue left a wet and warm trail, giving you goose bumps. The fingers in your panties circled between your folds, finding your clit and rubbing it. You gasped, both of your hands sought support against the counter, while small bubbles began to rise more and more often to the surface of the water in the pot.

Michael kept rubbing against you, his fingers slipped from your clit to your entrance and dove inside you in one fluid motion. You gasped again, closed your eyes, his fingers curled inside you, rubbing against the spot behind your pubic bone, your clit softly tapped in the process. Michael breathed against your neck, his teeth skimmed your skin while his warm cock was pressing harder and harder against your butt and your pussy started to get wet. With a last ditch effort to dissuade him, you pointed out that the water was about to boil and it would only take a few minutes to cook the pasta and toss it into the pan, but the idea of being in a hurry only seemed more appealing to him, spurring him on. Michael in fact teased your sweet spot more intensely, continuing to tap your clit, and a first spasm tightened around his fingers; he kept pushing and squeezing you from the inside, the feeling of being full with just his fingers fuelled the flame in your abdomen.

The water in the pot was about to boil, but your attention was getting more and more caught by his fingers against your weak spots and the familiar pressure building up inside you. And before you even knew it, your hips were already following his movements, making you grind against him. Michael sucked the skin of your neck, nibbled it and then let go of both your pussy and breasts; he grabbed your panties, tugged them down to your ankles and then you heard him pull down his zip and boxer briefs. Grabbing you by the waist, Michael spun you around and held you tight between himself and the counters behind you. Your gaze met his eyes, intense, penetrating, his warm heavy breath was brushing over your face as he came closer. Keeping you trapped between his upper body and his arms, Michael pushed again one knee between your legs, tightened his grasp around your waist and, as if you weighed nothing, he lifted you up, sitting you up on the edge of the counter. He kept your thighs wide open and, sliding smoothly between your legs, wrapped them around his torso. You leaned back slightly, resting on your hands and Michael, placing his hands on either side of you, hunched over you, until the tip of his nose touched yours. And he stood still. His eyes, bored into yours, were magnetic, affectionate, almost seemed to shine, but the dark sense of danger hidden behind was too strong for you, too intense. Impossible to bear. Overwhelmed, you simply closed your eyes and let him do whatever he wanted. As always. It was inevitable. Michael grabbed one of your arms, putting it on his shoulder and you, opening your eyes, automatically clung to him. He was still watching you. He didn't even blink when you felt his cock resting on your wet pussy. You slightly gasped and he, never taking his eyes off yours, let his cock glide between your folds, stroking your clit and letting your pussy gape around nothing. He continued to slide it up and down, coating it with your fluids and watching how your gaze wavered under his advances, how your arousal and need for him grew.

Michael continued to gently rub against you, his warm and hard cock made you more and more impatient, more and more eager. Then, using one hand, he lined up its tip against your entrance, getting another soft moan from you, and he slightly slipped it between your hole and clit. He was toying with you, teasing you, you knew that. And you hated yourself because, despite everything, you couldn't stop wanting him. Michael stared at you the whole time, savoring your every wince, your every twitch against his cock and then, breathing heavily on your face, he thrust his tip into you. Your lips parted, your lashes lowered on your languid eyes, and he pulled out again. You groaned, your hips tried to follow his movements, your pussy begged for his cock to fill it. You swallowed again, looked pleadingly at him and he, holding you firmly by the hips, penetrated you with a single fluid thrust. You gasped at the enormous stretch, both of your hands clung to his shoulders. Michael pulled out, leaving only his fat tip inside you and then pushed again, opening you up and sinking deeper and deeper. You rolled your pelvis as far forward as you could, taking his cock completely inside you, the stretch painful and pleasant at the same time. Michael slowly pulled out and, giving you one last look, slammed into you, until his pelvis crashed into yours. His head tilted, looking for the hollow in the side of your neck and, taking a deep breath of your scent, he began to rock against you, gently filling you and rubbing your sweet spots.

Michael sucked the skin of your neck while his huge cock was voluptuously sliding in and out of you, letting your fluids drip out and spread over your already wet pussy. The heat in your abdomen flared up, Michael grunted, continuing to plunge into you at a brutally perfect pace and you, feeling the familiar pressure growing faster and faster, couldn't help but cling around his neck, holding him tight against you as your fingers tangled themselves into his hair. You moaned again, it was all so intense, too intense, a wrong intimacy from which your mind was increasingly unable to defend itself.  
Michael kept pushing and rocking voluptuously against you, the elastic band in your depths so ready to snap. A distant sound, however, caught your attention, a muffled gurgle that partially brought you back to reality; instinctively you looked towards the pot and saw that the water was boiling. Sensing your partial distraction, Michael lifted his head and met your face. His ravenous, ferocious eyes pierced yours for a few moments and then settled on the pot; as his eyes traveled back to yours, Michael slightly tilted his head and you glimpsed, for only a fraction of a moment, the slightest twitch on his face that made his eyes narrow and the corners of his mouth lift in a smirk. One of his hands let go of your hip, grabbed the plate with the pasta to be cooked and, reaching out, brought it over the pot. You tried to stop him, telling him that the pasta would be cooked in a few minutes, but Michael, staring at you, put the pasta into the boiling water. His hand left the plate, returned to your hip and his face closed in on yours. Before you could say anything else, Michael trapped you in a kiss and went back to thrusting into you, the wet sounds of your pussy gurgling with every push. You tried to relax, you kissed him back, your hands clung again to his neck. Michael shoved his tongue in your mouth, stroking it against yours, and he picked up his pace, his huge cock kept rubbing insistently against your sweet spot, his crotch kept tapping against your clit, and, fueling the heat in your depths, he recaptured your full attention, quickly pushing you to the limit.

The water was boiling loudly but all you really heard was the squishy sounds of your soaked pussy as his cock kept going back and forth and his balls smacking against you, his groans in your mouth while he kept kissing you passionately; probably, sharing this new moment with you had turned him on to the point of wanting a quickie, and yet, despite his obvious urgent need, he wanted you to cum first. And somehow you felt special to him once again.  
Michael's rhythm intensified, your moans followed his pattern and soon you felt the huge wave swelling deep within you. Michael kept thrusting brutally inside you, his cock seemed bigger and harder against your crushed walls and, as soon as you felt nearing your own end, you hugged him and, moaning and panting, you felt your elastic band snap: your pussy tightened around his cock, sucking it voraciously, and you felt your orgasm rush towards you, spreading everywhere in your body and overwhelming you with unstoppable power. A myriad of shocking waves of pleasure shook you as your pussy convulsively clenched around the huge cock that never stopped abusing your depths, the muscles of your inner thighs trembled around his torso, your arms held him tighter and closer to you.

Michael kept fucking you powerfully on the counter, the iron grip on your ass leaving more and more evident bruises as he forced you to meet his every deep thrust. Riding all your clenches around his cock, Michael kept pushing inside you at an increasingly brutal, animalistic pace and, as you began to slip into the bliss of the afterglow, his hips stuttered. Keeping his lips pressed against yours, Michael stiffened and sank deep inside you, impaling you with one last, powerful thrust and, trembling in your arms and grunting against your lips, he marked you once again, releasing loads of hot cum that completely flooded your walls.

Michael stood still for a few seconds, catching his breath, his lips still against yours, his hands still on your hips, his grip loosened by his post-orgasmic bliss. Shortly after, he opened his eyes and parted from your lips; he looked at you in the visible messed up state you were in and his hand, letting go of your side, grabbed his knife and used it to stir pasta. After sticking his knife into it, he brought its pointy tip with the stuck pasta to your mouth, so that you could taste it. Still dizzy, you returned his gaze, ready to obey him and, blowing so as to not scald yourself, you tasted the pasta straight from his knife. Michael stood looking at you, waiting for an answer, and he seemed almost mocking, as if he already knew it and was simply gloating: he already knew that your quickie had been efficiently included in that cooking time that had distracted and alarmed you so much. You tried to ignore his mockery and, swallowing the taste, you confirmed that pasta was perfectly cooked and that it was only necessary to turn off the stove.

Michael eyed you with a mischievious look and, letting go of the knife, turned off the stove under the pot; then he let go of your hips and pulled his cock out of your pussy, taking a few seconds to watch his cum dripping out of you and onto the edge of the counter. When he was satisfied, Michael stepped back and you got off the counter, picked up your underwear off the floor and put it on and, trying to ignore how his release smeared between your thighs, you drained the pasta and poured it into the pan so as to dress it with the sauce. Michael had already readjusted himself and was silently watching you as you served dinner in both plates and set them on the table. You sat in the same seat used when you had breakfast and, after he sat down too, you wished him a good appetite, trying to ignore the awkwardness of that new situation and the uncomfortable stickiness thickening between your legs.

Having dinner with Michael for the first time was really weird. Unusual and natural at the same time. Absurd. All this time, you had solely been locked away in a room and raped, while now you were sharing with him something as normal and intimate as a dinner at home, a dinner that you had prepared for the both of you. Seeing him sitting next to you, so calm and satisfied, like he has actually accomplished something, made you feel different sensations, leaving you puzzled, confused. You weren't used to this image of him and, although you knew that this form of shared daily life was totally wrong, to a part of you seemed even to have always been living it, as if it were part of your dimension, as if it had always been so. As if it were really normal. Your mind remained suspended for a few moments, frightened and tired of being endlessly assaulted by all those conflicting thoughts; then you forced yourself to blow away those thoughts, to regain control of yourself: so many things had happened in so little time and your wrong and intrusive thoughts were surely the inevitable consequence of the traumas that Michael was inflicting on you, the result of your nervous wreck, of the ever-growing emotional devastation amplified by your guilts.

You blinked and did your best to return alert, to think straight, without being fooled again by your weaknesses. You looked at Michael and offered to clear the table and wash dishes. He didn't seem to reject the idea and let you do it; shortly after he left the table and stood still in the room, staring at you. You tried to ignore the feeling of his eyes fixed on you and, after you finished to clear the table, you turned your back to Michael and started washing the dishes. After a few minutes, the feeling of his eyes on you seemed to be gone and when you finished doing the washing up, you slightly turned, peeping over your shoulder to spot Michael. He wasn't behind you anymore, he wasn't in the kitchen with you anymore, he wasn't at the foot of the stairs or in the living room. You looked at the back door, no longer cluttered by the two bodies: the door was ajar and you thought that Michael, probably, was momentarily out, perhaps to hide the bodies of the two unlucky boys, under cover of darkness. That was your chance! Without a second thought, you grabbed a rag and knelt in front of the counter still dirty from your releases and approached the branch of belladonna. You took a quick look at the back door and, without ever losing sight of it, you reached out and frantically began to pick as many berries as you could. Your heart was pounding while your hands were collecting as many berries as you could keep. You looked away from the door just for a moment, just to check that you had accumulated enough berries to kill a man as big as Michael, and looked back at the door, still ajar, not moved. Your eyes darted rapidly in every corner of the kitchen, the door was still ajar and there was still no sign of Michael.

You stood up again and, keeping the berries in the old rag, you opened the honey jar and started squeezing the berries inside, throwing the skins into the sink. You looked at the door, you made sure you were still alone, your heart seemed about to explode in your chest, but your trembling hands kept grasping and frantically squeezing handfuls of berries into honey, every single berry, up to the last one. You shifted your eyes from the honey jar to the door again, while your hands blindly reached out to the tap; you turned on the water and hurried to rinse your hands before the toxic substance could be absorbed through your skin, and then you washed the peels of the juiced berries down the drain, so as to not leave any evidence. You averted your eyes from the door only for a few moments, just so you grabbed the towel again and, turning your head and staring at the door again, you quickly dried your hands and reclosed the honey jar. A dull sound came from outside and your heart jumped in your throat: Michael was about to be back in the house. You shook the jar of honey with electric frenzy, hoping that the juice of the berries and the honey had mixed together well enough: you knew that those poisonous berries had a quite pleasant taste and the sweetness of honey would have been the ideal to cover it. You put the jar back in the same position you found it in and knelt at the foot of the still dirty counter; you looked at the door and, as soon as you saw a shadow drawing on the floor, you turned your head to the counter, starting to scrub it vigorously with the old cloth. The almost imperceptible clicking sound of the door made you realize that Michael had just come in, closing the door behind him. You pretended you didn't notice and kept cleaning the counter, trying to breathe slowly so as to calm your racing heart. You had no idea what Michael was doing behind you, but judging by the shiver that ran down your spine, you knew he was staring at you again with his usual, oppressive insistence.

You got up to rinse the towel, you ran your tongue over your lips, dry with fear and anxiety and, swallowing to wet your throat, you kept breathing deeply and slowly, gradually steadying your heart. Michael came closer and you, turning to him, told him that you had just finished cleaning and all you had to do was put the dishes away. He stood looking you straight in the eye and a part of you feared that he was somehow onto you. Long, endless seconds, until Michael gently grabbed you by the chin and brushed his thumb over the corner of your mouth. Then he brought his thumb to his lips and licked it. Realizing that you had something on your mouth and that he had just cleaned it, you thanked him and apologized, while, in your mind, you heaved a sigh of relief for not having been seen poisoning the honey.  
Michael grabbed your arm, his grip firm but not painful and, moving, he made you walk with him, heading upstairs and into your bedroom. You were about to go to the bathroom while Michael stood still at the door. You returned his gaze and, without any more delay, you closed the bathroom door behind you. After you washed, you went back to the bedroom and the door was still ajar, but Michael was gone. You walked up to the bed, put on a clean pair of panties and the same tank top, you started to tie your hair into your soft braid and listened. All was silence, quiet. You hoped that Michael hadn't noticed anything off, but that deep silence made you nervous, it was too much. And suddenly dread twisted again its way inside your head, you began to fear that he might eat honey even in the evening. You didn't see that coming! Judging by its level in the jar, you noticed that he only ate it occasionally and this was a detail that worked in your favor, but actually you assumed that, just like you, he only ate it for breakfast. The terror of having rushed it and having made a serious mistake began to grip your stomach: if he had accused the symptoms of poisoning shortly after the first dinner you had prepared for both, he would have surely understood that you were somehow responsible for it, and you couldn't afford something like that right now. You didn't know exactly how long after the ingestion the poison would have taken effect, but you couldn't even be sleeping while he died of food poisoning: at best, Michael would have really been dead, but after what you saw that terrible night, you weren't sure that that creature could really be killed. That's why you had to be awake while he was dying, you had to be with him, to be able to talk to him. At worst, in fact, Michael would only be "dead" for a short time, the same amount of time you needed to escape and find someone who could have helped you. Except your escape wasn't supposed to happen until you could have talked to him first. Anxiety and dread crept back into your mind, your hands trembled again in fear that your only plan might fail miserably. Another dull sound came from downstairs, from the same direction where the back door was, and you crept up to the ajar door of your bedroom. You remained listening, but no other sound came from the lower floor. Trying to curb your anxiety, you tried to reason, to think of alternative explainations, until your eyes saw the shadow that stretched from the stairs to the hallway in front of your room: Michael was already back upstairs and, for the first time, you felt relieved that he was going to join you in your bedroom so early.

When he got upstairs, he seemed surprised to see you still standing and you, stammering and looking down, told him meekly that you were just waiting for him. Michael had no reaction to give you, apart from a slight tilt of his head and, entering the room with you, escorted you to the bed. You slipped under the sheets and he, adjusting himself, lay down next to you. Then he stretched out his arms towards you and, holding you close to him, he deeply breathed the scent of your hair. You felt him relax against your body, waiting to fall asleep, while you, staying awake in his arms, remained in listening, in case he began to display the first symptoms of food poisoning. But Michael seemed calm, his breathing even, his hands steady. His regular heartbeat was all you heard and, calming your thoughts, you convinced yourself that Michael hadn't eaten the poisoned honey yet. Probably he had gone back downstairs to block the broken door with some makeshift object, in order to avoid new, possible intrusions from the outside, at least until he had found a way to repair it. You closed your eyes, hoping to fall asleep soon, and tried to reassure yourself, thinking that Michael would have been poisoned a long time after this evening, when he had let you prepare the dinner and briefly left you alone in the kitchen. He would have kept offering honey for your breakfasts and you would have simply pretended to eat it so as not to arouse suspicion. Your fear gradually faded and you sighed silently as sleep began to gently envelop you. Michael wouldn't have left you alone in the kitchen again, he would have never stopped looking at you and you would have just kept behaving normally under his watchful gaze. You would have been above suspicion. If he had later survived the poisoning, in case he had linked the symptoms to something he had ingested, he could hardly have thought of an intentional poisoning and, at least, he wouldn't have had a reason to suspect you.

-

It had been a few days since your first dinner together, and with each awakening you were more and more tired, agitated and nauseated: you could no longer get enough sleep, it was fragmented and disturbed by the anxiety that each day could be the decisive one and that you could risk missing the fateful moments of Michael's poisoning. From that night on, Michael regularly made you prepare meals and, even though he didn't always eat together with you, you never failed to cook for both of you, sometimes even for the next day; whenever possible, you also prepared different main and side dishes that you sometimes tasted, sometimes not, that sometimes you found among the leftovers, and other times not. Everything seemed normal and in this way, in the event that Michael survived the poisoning and realized he had ingested something toxic, you could have had an alibi: you and he ate the same meals and you cooked everything in front of him; by doing so, it was more likely to gravitate towards the idea of an allergic reaction rather than a deliberate poisoning. After all, Michael was the only one who provided food, you just cooked it, between his insistent stares and his inappropriate behaviors. Everything happened under his control. You were officially innocent.

A key part of your plan, in fact, was that Michael had not even the slightest idea that you had tried to kill him - again. You knew all too well how much he didn't want you to dare run away from him, and if you had broken your bond of trust, built with so much suffering, in all likelihood you wouldn't have gotten away with just one word carved in your flesh. In fact, Michael would have figured out that all this time you had been pretending with him, that you had been trying to manipulate him so that you could escape from him. He would have hunted you down, you were sure. But what you feared the most wasn't just what he could have done to you once caught; the obsessive, hammering thought that kept repeating in your brain was that he could take revenge in other ways, before torturing you and, perhaps, killing you once and for all. In fact, you feared that Michael, realizing that you didn't reciprocate his "feelings" as he wanted, would punish you by killing all the people you loved. By killing your boyfriend. He would have shown you that, if he couldn't have you, no one else could, making you rue your every single choice. The very thought shook you so much that you almost threw up. No, you had to do everything perfectly, deceive him to the end, so as to protect your loved ones from any possible repercussions. The terror accumulated in your stomach almost made you retch but you calmed down. Your nausea, often obvious even while eating together with Michael, although for you a clear symptom of your exasperated somatization, could have even come in handy, in case he had survived the poisoning: he might have thought in fact that perhaps the food he had stolen was spoiled or expired and that, in your case, it had caused you nausea and vomiting, while in his case, it had caused him other symptoms. Yes, it made sense. You could do it. There was hope.

It had been a few days since your first dinner together, and with each awakening you were more and more tired, agitated and nauseated.  
That day, Michael ate less than usual, even leaving the table earlier. He probably had little appetite, or maybe, before you joined him, he had already eaten something you had prepared the day before. It wouldn't have been the first time, after all.  
What happened for the first time, though, was that Michael didn't let you finish washing the dishes. His hand in fact abruptly grabbed your arm and began to harshly pull you; despite some clumsiness in his movements, Michael walked with you, urging you to go upstairs and get back to your room, his manners were strangely brusque and hasty. You had already noticed how, while watching you finish your meal, he seemed unable to stay still as usual, as if he was staggering, his own breathing seemed rather fatigued and uneven. And, now that you felt his rush to throw you into your room, his heavy breathing seemed to echo even louder from behind his mask.  
The hand around your arm was hot and Michael seemed to have a very difficulty time climbing stairs. He staggered, bumping into your shoulder, and you sharply turned to him, asking him if he were feeling okay, your eyes wide open, your voice shaky. Michael grunted and, losing his balance and leaning against you, walked unsteadly with you to the upstairs landing. You tried to ask him again if he was ill, but he grabbed your throat and kept clumsily pushing you to your room. His fingers tightened around your neck and you, in sudden fear, grasped his wrist. Michael tried to shove you into your room but he lost his balance, dragging you by the neck as his back crashed against the wall next to the door of your room. You instinctively broke your fall by extending your arms forward and placing your hands on his chest: his heart was racing and his whole body was burning as if it were on fire. Resisting his uncoordinated tugs, you begged him to stop, telling him that he was scaring you and that you didn't understand what was happening. Michael huffed and grunted harder, his hand around your neck held you still as he, leaning on the wall and clinging to you, stepped away from the wall and reversed your position, slamming your back against the wall and trapping you with his body pressed against yours. His fingers tightened harder around your neck, another grunt vibrated in his chest and you, in a strangled voice, kept begging him in terror. Michael violently slammed his other hand against the wall and leaned on it, his face dipped into the side of your neck and you heard his teeth rattling, as if he wanted to bite you, despite still wearing his mask; his fingers were still too tight around your neck and you really started to fear that he was going to choke you while he was obviously hallucinating. You tried to push him away with all your strength, but Michael was too big, too heavy; then he gasped again, his head lolled to the side and you, taking advantage of the slight wobble in his grip around your neck, managed to wriggle out from under his arms. Michael slackly turned his head to follow your movements, but his high fever and hallucinations made him lose his balance and crash into the wall again. Raising your hands up in surrender, you backed towards the flight of stairs, begging him to stop because he was scaring the hell out of you.

"Michael, please, you're scaring me!"

He wheezed, his hands adhered to the wall behind him.

"Please, tell me what's going on, what's the matter?"

Michael got momentum and clumsily pounced on you; you instinctively screamed and dodged him and, while he tottered and bent over on the railing, you ran down the stairs. Michael rushed to catch you again, but he only managed to grasp the strap of your tank top, tearing it; with that tug, he lost his balance and toppled over, rolling down the stairs and, landing right on you, you both fell onto the floor, the impact of his huge weight on your back knocked the air from your chest. Michael grunted, he seemed stunned and you, taking advantage of his difficulty moving, crawled away from under his body. You curled up and stayed on your knees next to him, still lying on the floor. In agony.

Powerless, for once.

The poison was draining away all his strength and soon he wouldn't even have been able to breathe.

...Rather ironic that now it was his turn to feel suffocated.

Knowing that Michael was - for now at least - unable to harm you, you approached him so as to take advantage of his last minutes of consciousness. Out of breath and with trembling hands, you leaned down on him and gently touched his broad chest: his heart was pounding and his whole body radiated an immense heat. Michael turned to you, his eyes visible from behind the dark eye slits of his mask, his breathing getting more laboured. His vision was surely blurred because of the poison, so you brought your face close to his, in your flinching gaze a mute concern took the place of your initial confusion:

"Michael, what's happening? You almost killed me! Why--?"

He gazed straight into your pupils, his eyes were sparkling with a silent scream that seemed to pierce through you and grasp your true essence. He seemed so desperate.  
And it felt almost painful.

"Michael, you--"

His hand grabbed your wrist, his grip strong, but less intense than before. His shiny eyes, so piercing, so infinite, never left yours.  
There was something inexplicable in his gaze, like a strange light, like a poignant and corrupt innocence that hit you right in the feels, like a blow to your heart that confused and hurt you. You tried to stay focused on your plan, the tremble in your voice as your hand grazed against his skin, and you kept talking to him.

"You're burning up with fever... Wha-- Help me understand. Please, talk to me!" - you knew he couldn't do that. Not even if he wanted to.

Michael spasmed, he seemed to choke on his own cough, your fingers were gently touching the back of his hand around your wrist, while a strange pain stirred in your stomach and a bitter knot formed in your throat. Your mind wavered, those strange sensations were buffling, they confused you, blurring and blending the boundaries between truth and lie. You gulped, but kept talking to him.

"M-Michael, you need help. I-I have to find a doctor!"

His eyes widened in his spasms, his hand tried to clench harder around your wrist and another stirring pooled in your stomach.

"Please Michael, listen to me! You're sick, I need to help you, you need a doc--"

Michael grunted with difficulty, his hand gripping your wrist with a last, desperate surge of energy. You knew that he didn't want you to leave that house and you felt painfully sorrowful to see that, for him, keeping you with him seemed to be more important than fighting for his own life. A strange knot tightened your stomach, the lump in your throat felt more and more bitter in front of Michael's agonizing and stubborn resistance. Such a lethal being, and yet now so vulnerable. You hardly swallowed the bitter lump in your throat, the confusion of the conflicting emotions inside you increased, but, stuttering, you kept talking to him.

"Listen to me, please. You... You've always taken care of me. Allow me to return the favor for once. You... You had no appetite, Michael, and now you're burning, you can't breathe: you're sick, you may have ingested something you're allergic to, it's dangerous and I'm scared! You need a doctor's help before it's too late and I promise I'll find one: I always keep my promises."

Michael gnashed his teeth and grunted, gave every last ounce of strength to the hand around your wrist. The bitter knot in your throat tightened, you couldn't fight back the tears for much longer and, in a trembling voice, you kept talking to him, reminding yourself to exploit the nature of your bond.

"I'm not trying to escape, how could I? I belong to you, Michael, I'm yours. I could never run away from you." - and in a way, considering how deep he already was into your mind, that concept wasn't that far off from the truth.

His shiny eyes sparkled like flames from behind the black holes, his blazing gaze, despite his body started convulsing, filled everything, and his gasps became more and more faint and suffocated. His grip around your wrist loosened and it was painful, absurdly painful, to feel all his vulnerability, to think that maybe he too was capable of suffering. You completely bent over him, letting him look better at you and, caught between the painful violence of unexpected and nameless emotions and the first tears falling down from your eyes straight onto his mask, you whispered again, taking advantage of every moment he remained conscious.

"I'm not running away from you, Michael. I just... have to find a doctor. I'll be back soon, Michael, just hold on."

He made one last dark and wet gasp, while his hand around your wrist seemed to not want to let you go, even though its grip had no more strength left; you kept looking him in the eye during his last, agonizing moments of life. That strange sense of deep sorrow gripped your stomach once again, grew out of control and made you weep, shedding bitter tears, letting your cry free to flow.  
No pretence. No trick.

Despite all this was part of your plan, despite all the horrors you had been through, you couldn't ignore that part of you that felt that strange, twisted pain in front of his suffering, the suffering for which you were secretly responsible. Your heart seized at the sight of his intense eyes drifting out of focus as their light gradually faded away, as his eyelids slowly closed. Once again you felt like a monster and at the same time small, incredibly small. Defenseless. Empty. Completely lonely and heartbroken, guilty and almost repentant in front of the dying man who seemed more afraid of letting you go than dying. Michael, so loose and absolute. So deadly to everyone.

But not to you.

As absurd and unacceptable as it was, you couldn't deny the existence of that sense of ruthless emptiness, that deep pain you felt as you watched life slip away from Michael, a being for which you should have felt only hate, pure hate, which had ruined your life, your entire existence, twisting his way inside you in every possible way, preying on your insecurities and weaknesses, molding you into what he wanted. You should have felt relief because your plan was working, because at best he would have really been dead once and for all.  
Yet now, you could only feel scared, bereft, lonely, deprived of that sick comfort that only he could make you feel, deprived of that stupid, cursed feeling of being "special" to someone as unique as him. As if something like that gave you a meaning.  
Now, faced with his painful vulnerability, you felt neither hate nor relief. Only sadness. A deep, visceral, inexplicable sadness, fueled by an unexpected human compassion that, despite everything, you were still able to feel.

Even for someone like him.

You wondered how all this was possible, how it was possible that you emphatized with him, that a part of you had somehow even grown attached to him. He was your abuser! A murderer and a psychopath! How sick you really were?! You hated this, it was wrong on so many levels. You blamed yourself, you cursed yourself for your weakness, for letting yourself be seduced by his morbid attentions, for giving in to that absurd sense of reassurance you felt each time he made you feel special to him.  
You should have hated him, completely and utterly hated him. Not..this.  
This wasn't part of your plan.

It was as if you could see beyond everything and feel him, his own person. Your bond with him had grown deeper and deeper, maybe even too much. He had become a part of you, and you could no longer hate him as you expected.  
As it should have been.

Now Michael was just Michael. A man. A being that you felt you've known forever, someone who seemed to have lived inside you forever, and all you could see was the tragedy in him, the incomprehensible mystery in him. There was something elusive in the twisted simplicity of his being, something absurdly innocent that went far beyond his depraved perversions towards you, his threat to consume everything. You felt it, you felt only now the true essence of his feeling, a feeling that he had been able to express only with the language of monstrosity, perhaps the only language he had ever known in his entire life. Now you felt his feeling, and it was paradoxically pure, real, embedded in the depths of his being. And after choosing you as its sole keeper, he just wanted you to accept it. All this just so that you would have accepted and reciprocated that feeling. Your heart painfully shrank as his excruciating and crazy plea ripped open the veil of horror before your eyes. Everything vanished. His manipulations, his humiliations, his abuses, his perversions. The ferocious and affectionate gaze that he reserved exclusively for you had a different meaning now; it was the gaze of a creature who, despite his innate evil, in his own way, just wanted to love you and be loved by you.

Now Michael was just Michael. Just a man who, even if in totally horrifying and wrong ways, asked you to live together with him everything, your every gesture, your every emotion, every aspect of your person. He was just asking you to love him.  
He wasn't just the shape of a man, now: he was showing you more.  
The monster and the man, the indomitable power of his mysterious and dark force and the twisted tragedy of his shattered and fragmented humanity, the deeply unsettling mask and the intricately alluring face behind it. You wondered how it all started for him, how he got that way.

And for a second, only a fraction of second, you wondered if a genuine love could have really saved the man behind the mask.

You perceived that feeling just now, you could almost grasp it only now, with his last death rattle, with the mild graze of his fingers that, now too weak to keep you with him, slipped away from your wrist and limply hit the floor, while the human limits of his dying body hindered once again the immense power of his dark force. The monstrous being who died in your arms, in those suspended moments, before your incredulous eyes, was simply Michael. Perverse, evil, indomitable, absolute. And at the same time so inexplicably and absurdly... pure.

You closed your eyes, letting your last warm tears drop onto the expressionless mask, your whole existence crossed by that mystical hugeness with which Michael was able to influence you even in death. You reopened your eyes and swallowed your bitter sobs, your mind ordering you to stick to the plan, to get a hold of yourself. You felt a distant buzz reverberating in your head and, striving to remember about the people you loved, their right to find you, to know, you gradually recovered from your absurd delusional state. You let go of Michael's lifeless body and stood up, staring at him for a few moments in the suspended stillness of his death. And in that new, profound silence, you remembered that you didn't have so much time left. If Michael had been able to return from the dead once again, then you only had a few minutes ahead of him, and you should have used every single moment at your disposal. For the people you loved. For who would have mourned those two boys. Your eyes peeled off from Michael's lifeless body and, taking a deep breath, you looked towards the kitchen and rushed to the back door.

Your hands hurled against the doorknob and the door, without any resistance, flung open wide in front of you, your excessive force propelled you and almost knocked you off balance. And while the door swung open wide before you, your eyes, after a long time, were flooded with light again. The glare of the day was no longer filtered through your darkened and boarded-up window, the vastness of the space surrounding you was no longer confined by the dark walls of your room. Your breath caught and everything seemed to float in the shining infinity that surrounded you. Pure flames seemed to burn in your eyes, so unaccustomed to all that light, and you couldn't help but close and cover them with your hands: the long confinement in the dim-light of your room now left you unprepared in front of that golden sea of light. You tried to move, but you stumbled, your hands hit the damp soil and you reopened your eyes, doing your best to resist the strong burning. You stood up again and, staggering and squinting, you forced yourself to adjust to the excess of light around you. Some quick, painful glances around, and there were only trees, lots of trees. You closed your eyes again, took a few uncertain steps, the ground was soft and fresh under your bare feet; you put your hands over your eyes as a shield to shade them, hoping to be able to keep them open longer. You looked around, your heart pounding with anxiety, as your eyes gradually managed to readjust to the light. There was no sign of any path among the trees, no houses in the distance. You remembered what you had glimpsed from the windows near the main door and walked around the house. Your eyes were still burning but you, by keeping them closed from time to time for a few seconds, forced them to adapt as quickly as they could. And hurriedly, you ran in the direction of the main door, until you finally saw it: there was indeed an old dirt road! You ran towards it and stopped for a few seconds, just long enough to scan the horizon, hoping to see some houses, any sign of civilization. But everywhere there were only trees. Trees, and soil, and light. You had nothing but that dirt road.  
A shiver ran down your spine and you couldn't help but listen to that dark call behind you. Breathing deeply, you began to slowly turn around, just for a few moments, just to have a general image of the house behind you. Of your prison. The theater of horrors. You barely whimpered at that sight, at the thought of the man lying dead inside it, at all those parts of you that you had left with him. With teary eyes, you blocked that sob pressing your lips together; you swallowed and breathed deeply and, turning your back to the house again, you returned to look straight ahead.

And you ran.

You ran.

Fast. Far. You ran like hell.

And suddenly your eyes weren't burning anymore, your withheld tears were no longer knotting your throat, there was no nausea, there were no chains. There was only you. You and the cool soil under your bare feet, the adrenaline fueling your muscles weakened by your long and forced inactivity. There was only the wind on your skin indicating your speed, the crisp air filling your lungs, your desperate run to civilization, to freedom.

You ran, you ran as never before, and all you felt was the call of hope. There were no stones cutting up the soles of your bare feet, there was no fatigue in your enfeebled muscles, there was no panting, nothing that could have ever stopped you from running. The trees darted in the corners of your eyes, your hurried steps left a long trail of thuds and undefined footsteps in the ground, your breath was almost deaf to your ears. You tripped and fell, the mud splattered and you shut your eyes, a slight burning sensation on your knee, but you stood up again, hastily, without thinking twice: the Boogeyman could have come back at any moment, he could have caught you again, hauled you back to him and locked you up, swallowing you forever in the darkness. And you, you wanted the light.

Nothing.

Nothing could stop you from running. And you kept running at breakneck speed, everything around you was just an undefined mass of blurred colours that you left behind, the path in front of you was all you saw, all that mattered. And its horizon would have never been too far from you. You would have reached it, you would have gone past it. You would have found a city, a road, any sign of civilization. You knew there was something - there had to be.

You had no idea how long you had run, how far you had come. But something was starting to change, the thick of trees was thinning out, the path was opening up. You stopped, leaning on a trunk, looking around. Your panting was deafening, your heart seemed to explode, your lungs cold, your legs heavy. Starving for air, you kept looking around: civilization - anyone - couldn't have been too far away, you were sure of it. That night, the last night at your home, the wind outside indicated that a storm was coming. You remembered it well, you remembered how you appreciated it in your solitary silence, after returning home. And when you woke up later, shackled in the damn, decrepit house, the storm was still there, and it was closer. You didn't know how long you were unconscious after Michael strangled you, you had no idea how he had carried you, but that nightly storm was still there, closer, but it hadn't broken out yet, so it was reasonable to think that the house where he had brought you couldn't be too far from yours. The two boys, those two unlucky, innocent boys, had equipment for recording by video and that night you only heard their voices: no engine roars, no cars. They had arrived on foot carrying their stuff, they walked all the way to your prison and you, once out, didn't see any bike either. They probably had a car, but it was reasonable to think that they had parked it somewhere else, before taking the dirt road that you were retracing backwards and which now widened out before your eyes. And then, electricity, hot water,... You weren't in an abandoned area, someone was definitely nearby, there had to be!  
Your heart was beating hard against your chest, each breath seemed to set alight your lungs, everything in your body felt heavy and painful. Until a distant sound caught your attention.

You tried your best to calm your deafening heavy breath, you strained your ears to any sound that wasn't coming from your exhausted body. And that distant sound echoed again. A speeding car. Then another. You were close to... something! Another rush of adrenaline pumped through your veins and you, regardless of the fatigue of your body, started running again, following the direction of those sounds. Every breath you took, every step you moved, and the tightness in your chest became more and more painful, your mouth open, your throat dry, but you couldn't stop now, right now that you were so close to the rescue. And finally, through the trees in front of your tired and desperate eyes, you glimpsed a road. A real road, paved, one of those roads where cars could run. One of those roads that led to other people.

With a last effort, you hurled yourself towards the part of the road you could see and finally you came out of the trees to find yourself on the roadside. You leaned against a street lamp, in front of you a wide street, an open space, parked cars, neon signs. And above all, a diner near a gas station.  
Between you and it, only the road.

Pausing for a few seconds, so as to catch your breath and prevent you from risking to faint just at that moment, a stone's throw from your craved salvation, you remained leaning against the light pole and your hand casually brushed something that, rustling, caught your attention. A flyer. You looked at that flyer, grabbed it and smoothed out it in your hands.

"Missing".

It took you a few seconds to realize, as you kept staring at the face printed on that flyer, the big letters frightfully stating a simple truth. You blinked, your shortness of breath seemed to subside.

It took you more than a few seconds to recognize the face printed on that flyer. Her eyes full of life, her open and carefree smile.  
An aching knot tightened your dry throat, your lips quivered, your vision watered.

"Missing".

Yes. It took you longer than you ever expected to recognize yourself in the face printed on that flyer.  
You were rapt, mesmerized by staring at your own eyes, at the light that shone in them, the spontaneity of your smile. When was the last time you really smiled? When was the last time you just felt alive? Despite that alienating distance between you and your printed face, you remembered that photo. It was one of your boyfriend's favourites. He was still looking for you, the world outside hadn't abandoned you yet.  
A merciless grip tightened your stomach and your smiling face began to float and warp in front of you as your eyes got filled with more tears. It was you, that face was you, and yet it was like watching another person. A person you could no longer recognize, you could no longer remember. It was all so far, too far from you. A stranger to yourself.

"Missing".

A simple word, printed in big, capital letters, frightening. And even more frightening was the fact that your identity, your self-concept, your person, seemed to recognize itself more in the meaning of that word than in the memory of your own name. The face printed on that flyer really belonged to a missing person, because that person had disappeared, was lost in the darkest depths of that house, debauched and absorbed by the man who lay inside it. Michael... How deep did he get inside you? How much of you had he truly devoured?  
Another car darted by and you snapped back to reality, the alarmed sound of its horn blown away in a blink by its own speed.  
You held the flyer in your hands, you suddenly turned around to look behind you, terrified that Michael might appear. But only trees filled your eyes. You could still be free, you still had a plan to stick to.  
You went back to looking straight in front of you, past the large road: the gas station, the utility poles, the buildings, the vague familiarity of that place; everything was covered with flyers like the one you were holding tight to your chest. And the door of that diner just a short distance from you.

With another burst of energy, you started running again, heedless of danger as you crossed the street, fast cars approaching with their horns furiously scolding you, the asphalt heavy under your bare feet. Nothing. Nothing but the door. That was all you cared about, in those seconds. You didn't care about getting hit by a car because you were already dead. In that case, someone would have provided first aid and then maybe recognized your face, the face of the missing person, a truly missing person because she had already died, since her essence was lost, dissolved. Because Michael had appropriated her forever.

You didn't care about anything anymore.

Not even about the passerby who stopped, stunned, looking at you as you moved abruptly into his path, how he was shocked to see you barefoot, wounded and soiled, wearing only a torn tank top and a pair of panties. All you cared about was getting to the diner, getting to a place full of people. Full of witnesses.

You watched through the windows of the diner as you rushed to the door, people were quietly eating their meal. And pushing the door with your whole body, you burst into the diner.

Silence suddenly fell, profound, absolute. People were staring at you, with their eyes wide open, their gestures interrupted, their breaths suspended. It lasted only a few moments, but felt like an eternity. The commotion that immediately followed around you was too far from your ears, muffled, undefined. You stood at the entrance, on wobbly legs, with a bewildered look and the flyer held tight against your tired, pulsating heart. The swarm of voices rumbled louder, came closer, and your saddened eyes, among so many strangers staring at you, met the eyes of the man behind the counter who was hurriedly walking towards you. He was alarmed, worried, with his hands out, you surely looked like some deranged freak and he had to defend his diner, his customers. But you weren't a threat, you didn't want to hurt anyone. The man walked up to you, his words fell deaf on your ears and you, hearing the swarm of voices getting louder, finally broke the subtle tension that surrounded you.

"Help..."

The man hesitated, opened his eyes wide, a veil of doubt in his gaze.

"Please, help. I need--"

The man looked you straight in the eye, doubt gave way to concern and disbelief. How many people, how many stories had he known thanks to his work? How many times had he understood people's intentions just by looking into their eyes?  
Or maybe... Did he just recognize you, maybe?  
His look was clear, reassuring, there was no ferocity, there was no monster lurking behind and you wanted to scream and tell him your story, how you were running away from the boogeyman, how afraid you were that he might hurt you and people you loved so as to punish you. You wanted to cry and shout to everyone your suffering, the horror inside you, but you couldn't. You had to follow the plan. Maybe you were really dead, but you still had someone to protect. And with this one thought, your eyes full of tears sank into the clear ones of the man in front of you and with the faintest whisper you simply begged him:

"A doctor. I need a doctor."

The man seemed even more confused, even more puzzled, and you, hoping he would have noticed, uncurled the flyer to show your printed face, to be recognized with no doubt, while your eyes never left his ones and your quivering voice kept repeating that you needed a doctor.  
The man's eyes shifted lower to your chest and widened with horror as he started to glimpse at the marks on your body: bite marks, bruises, fresh and old cuts. The swarm of voices became deafening and you needed to drown out all those voices; you grabbed his arm and started to scream more and more hysterically, convulsively, begging to call a doctor. Everyone had to hear it. The man in front of you turned, shouted something to his coworker behind the counter, some customers came closer, offered help.

"A doctor! I need a doctor! A doctor! A doctor!!"

Among your desperate screams, your legs began to give out, but the man quickly grabbed you and, with an even more concerned look, kept comparing the smiling face on the flyer with the desperate face of the woman he was holding in his arms. He said something to you, kindness in his wide eyes, but you felt weaker and weaker, all you could hear was your voice screaming to call a doctor. The man turned again to his coworker, his voice, overcoming the swarm of the other voices, finally started to reach your hearing:

"Can you fucking hear me?! Call the fucking police! It's the Myers case!!"

Your hearing gradually came back to focus, the swarm of voices became more defined, you noticed that a woman was close to you. The man's words stuck in your mind: "the Myers case"...

The man was holding you up, he returned to look at you with trepidation, in his eyes an almost fatherly compassion. He talked to you, tried to reassure you, while you, with hardly any strenght, could only scream, begging to call a doctor; in your mind those words resonated deeper and deeper: "the Myers case."  
The woman bent over you, offered you some water to calm you down, someone was talking to each other, someone else was calling an ambulance. The man held you up, trembling and nodding, felt sorry for you, cursed Michael Myers for the horrors he could barely imagine he had made you experience. You kept repeating to call a doctor, and you screamed it desperately, you screamed it like crazy, despite your sore throat, your weakened body. Everyone had to hear your words.

Everyone had to be witness with the same version of events.

The workmate confirmed the arrival of the police, the man who was holding you tried again to calm you down:

"Hey, don't worry, it's all over, you're safe. The doctor is coming, an entire ambulance is coming, even the police! They're gonna catch that bastard-- Shit! Look what the fuck he's done to her, poor girl..."

Your gaze wavered and the woman brought the rim of the glass to your chapped lips. You stopped screaming, sipped the water, nodded, thanked her, but your vision kept getting blurry, your ears buzzing.

You were "the Myers case". To them, to everyone, you were "the Myers case". That was your new name, your new identity. You were really "missing", because Michael had taken all of you. Even your name. That was how they knew you, as "the Myers case", your own name not only inextricably tied to his, but totally engulfed by his. Erased by his.

You really were his personal belonging.

Confused and worried voices were lost in the increasingly deafening buzz in your ears, while your body fell like a dead weight into the arms of the good man who was already holding you. You were "the Myers case", nothing else.  
You managed to cast one last confused look around you, before black spots started drifting about in your eyes. The buzz in your ears was all you heard, until your eyes, rolling in the back of your head, got lost in the dark.

And in a few moments, everything was silence. Just a deep, absolute, black silence.

-

A distant commotion was the first thing you heard, the only slight trail in the darkness that your numb consciousness could follow on its journey back to the light. A floating awakening. You slowly opened your eyes, lying down and suspended, some slight tugs at your body. A few seconds to recover. You were in the street, the sky above you, paramedics moving around you: you were lying on a stretcher, the commotion, blending in with police sirens and flashes in the distance, caught your attention. Still groggy, you turned to look around and a flash dazzled you, a policeman urging the reporter to stay back. Taking a deep breath, you gazed into the distance, letting your eyes wander to the trees lining the roadside, the same trees from which you had come running like hell.

You almost did it.

Your eyes kept watching the trees, but your mind was traveling elsewhere. It was focused on the commotion, on the voices that were making the first statements to the restless press. Everyone would have told about your arrival at the diner, how you were in shock. And most importantly, everyone would have said the exact same thing: you were begging to call a doctor. You didn't ask to call the police, you never even mentioned Michael Myers, your infamous captor. All they had witnessed - and that now they were saying to the press and the police - was your obsessive demand to call a doctor. Just like you promised Michael.  
"The Myers Case" burst into a diner, half naked, dirty, wounded and distraught, but all she wanted was a doctor.

Your eyes kept wandering aimlessly through the trees from which you had come, your thoughts turned to the man you had run away from. Was he still dead? Was he in a coma?

If this time Michael had been dead once and for all, you would have had nothing more to fear, neither about you nor your loved ones. No punishment, no ownership claims.  
But if Michael had been able to return from the dead once again, then you needed a backup plan. The one you were still carrying out.

First of all, you doubted that Michael could have thought of intentional poisoning as the cause of his "illness": an allergic reaction or an accidental food poisoning were more likely explanations. After all, he was the one who provided food, you just cooked it and everything always happened under his intense gaze. Under his control.  
Except that one time, the first time he let you prepare a meal.  
That evening, after dinner, he sneaked out in absolute silence. Undetected. His eyes had stopped looking at you only for a few, unsuspicious minutes: you were cleaning up, apparently oblivious, you hadn't turned around when he came back, you hadn't given him a reason to think that you had noticed his brief absence. How could you have poisoned him if you thought you were being watched? And how could you ever find some poison, when in fact he was the one bringing the food home? You were innocent. You couldn't have looked otherwise. Spoiled food seemed like a more plausible explanation, especially since you often felt nauseous as well. What caused you nausea may have caused him a respiratory crisis. It made sense.  
The branch of belladonna itself was unsuspected: it was so small, inconspicuous; there was brushwood everywhere around the decrepit house, cracks in the walls attacked by climbing plants. The branch was all too well camouflaged in the dilapidated house. It was above suspicion. The invisible culprit hiding in plain sight before his eyes, just like you. In all likelihood, Michael would have never thought that you had deliberately poisoned him, and it was crucial to you that he kept on thinking so.

All this time, you had been playing this deleterious smoke and mirrors game with him, reciprocating his "feelings", gaining his trust. He certainly thought he had finally coaxed you into acknowledging that you belonged to him, and you needed him to keep believing that.

For this reason, as he was dying in your arms, your words had been the right ones for him, they were like a promise that honored your bond, your devotion to him; you seemed so desperate and your cry so sincere. It was impossible to think you were lying. Especially because the anguish you were feeling in those moments, as much as it frightened you to admit it, wasn't all that fake. Maybe Michael wasn't really able to feel emotions like a normal human being, but you knew how much he fed on yours, and what you had offered him while he was dying in your arms - in spite of yourself - was true. It was all frighteningly true. But you, sticking to your plan, remembered to carry on; like a devoted and concerned lover and faced with the inexplicable danger that was threatening his life, you proved him you would have done anything to save him. Even disobeying him so as to go out and find a doctor to save his life.

Your whole plan revolved around Michael believing you innocent and "in love" with him. Your real concern, in fact, wasn't the possibility of being caught again by him - if he survived, you knew he was going to do anything to capture you again. No. Your only real concern was to protect the last part of you that had remained untouched by him: the people you loved.

That dreadful night, Michael had punished you, he had taught you a lesson, so that you understood that you belonged solely and exclusively to him. So that you learned to accept him as your only reason for living. Your escape attempt had been punished.  
But since that night, things had changed, had evolved. You weren't trying to oppose or refuse him the way you used to, you were officially returning his feelings. How would he react if he realized you had been deceiving him for so long? You wouldn't have gotten away with just a word carved in your flesh this time. No, you no longer wanted to try to escape and risk him discovering your fine line, your subterfuge, because you feared that he, in that case, would punish you in an even worse way: by killing your loved ones. By killing your boyfriend. The last part of you that had remained untouched, out of his control. That would have been the strongest message he could have impressed on you: depriving you of everything that distanced yourself from him, because if he couldn't have you, no one else could.  
You couldn't allow it, this was your curse. They should have never been involved in it, you had to protect them.

If it were up to you, you would have preferred to rot with him in that house rather than run away and risk Michael's revenge. You were ready to sacrifice yourself to keep them safe, to protect them. But you knew your boyfriend, you knew he would have never been able to find peace until he knew where you were, if you were still alive. If there was still hope. He would have never gone on with his life, he would have remained trapped in uncertainty, endlessly searching for the truth. A damnation. And he didn't deserve that. He had a right to know, people who loved you had a right to know. You had to let them know what happened so that they could stop questioning, supposing, worrying. They deserved to know a truth that, no matter how horrendous, would help them get free, move on with their lives. Michael Myers was YOUR curse, yours alone. They didn't deserve to suffer the dire consequences. You would have waited to be found so you didn't have to run away on your own, but after what happened with the two boys, you couldn't let anyone else die because of you. And then the plant, the poison. The opportunity of justifying your escape with a seemingly different, acceptable reason. A reason that Michael could accept.

That's why you needed Michael to keep on thinking you were innocent, devoted, in love. His and his alone. For this reason, you were screaming to call a doctor inside a diner full of people. Full of witnesses who, reporting it to press and police, would have spread the event all over the news, giving Michael the chance to see for himself that you had not lied to him, that you really wanted to save his life. Proof that you weren't running away from him and that, by keeping your promise once again, you were loyal to him. Michael would have had no way of suspecting your betrayal and, therefore, no reason to punish you by killing the people you loved. You would have freed and protected their lives at the same time. That was all that really mattered. The last thing you - what was left of the real you - could still do.

And you? What about you?

If Michael had returned from the dead once again, he would have hunted you down and you could only hope that law enforcement would catch him before he recaptured you. And only after he would have been locked up forever in a cell, then maybe you could have tried to put the pieces of yourself back together. If there was still something left of you. And who knows, faking your own death. Try to start over.

Maybe yours wasn't the best plan, but in your mind it worked, it made sense. It was all you had, all you could do. And now, there was only the final phase to put into practice.

Your eyes lingered on the trees, watching their shadows dancing with the red and blue police lights that were being chased by the cold flashes and camera lights. And, as the last white glow dissipated, the pale face emerged from the darkness and it alone had the power to freeze the blood in your veins. You winced, you squinted to see better, your hand squeezed the flyer. And as the red and blue lights warped into white flashes and every voice faded into the distance, your eyes widened in silent terror: Michael Myers had returned once again from the realm of the dead, his imposing figure surrounded by trees. And his eyes, hidden behind the black holes of the pale mask, were fixed on you again. You could have screamed, revealed his location. But that wasn't what a devoted lover would do. It wasn't part of the plan.  
A stirring pooled in your stomach, your heart started beating faster. You wouldn't have made it in time, Michael would have disappeared in the blink of an eye if you tried to alert anyone. And worse, he would have understood your deception and your plan would have gone up in smoke. You hardly swallowed and kept looking at him, your pleading eyes, your sealed lips. You took a deep breath and slowly stretched your arm in his direction. Michael stood looking at you, carefully and cautiously studying you. And you, without ever taking your eyes off him, let go of the flyer with your face printed on it, your only way to communicate with him without revealing his presence.  
The flyer with your face was everywhere, you had been recognized. You hadn't betrayed him, you weren't betraying him even now. You were really innocent. Michael was there to study your reaction - there was no other explaination - and you were doing well.

Your lips moved to speak without a voice, silently begging Michael to forgive you for your failure and, as tears watered your vision, a paramedic interrupted you, recapturing your attention. He asked you something you didn't understand and you, barely shaking your head, stared at him for a few seconds. As soon as the paramedic's attention was drawn away from you, your head turned back to Michael's direction, but your eyes met only trees. Michael was gone. Your eyes darted everywhere, frantically, but there was no sign of Michael. The paramedics placed themselves around your stretcher, your eyes searching desperately for Michael, you were anxious to prove him that you hadn't revealed his location, to make sure that he considered you innocent. The paramedics lifted your stretcher, took you to the ambulance. You tried to turn your head more in the direction of the trees, looking for Michael, but he was gone. Vanished into thin air. Stuck on your stretcher, you were put into the ambulance. Your flyer fluttered away, driven by the wind, the last thing you could see before the ambulance doors closed before your eyes.

-

Roaring motors, blaring sirens.  
Your ambulance got lost over the horizon and the eyes hidden behind the mask returned to look at the flyer swinging in the wind. The open space in front of the diner crowded with people and police officers. The man in the shadows listened carefully to parts of statements from witnesses, those responsible for your capture. It seemed like you really kept your promise and then things went wrong.  
The commotion kept on, between shock and hysteria.  
The victim kidnapped by Michael Myers had been recognized and miraculously rescued, but her infamous captor was still on the loose, missing who knows where.  
You didn't reveal his position, you didn't mention the house.  
The noise from across the street grew, gradually bending back on itself. It distracted.  
And the man who everyone was hunting slowly emerged from the thick of the trees, undisturbed, reaching for the flyer you had let slip from your fingers. Michael grabbed it, smoothing it out in his hands. The whole area was papered with those flyers, your face was everywhere, it was inevitable that someone recognized you. He knew it, but you couldn't have known it. Letting that flyer fly to him was your only way of explaining your capture without attracting the attention of the others, your silent asking for forgiveness for not having been able to come back to him.  
His ferocious eyes shone with affection as he kept staring at your smiling face printed on that flyer and a stirring pooled in his gut. He liked your smile. The deadly hands folded the flyer, a meticulous care in smoothing out all the creases and keeping them from damaging the printed image of your face. They took you away before he could gain possession of that smile, too. This had to change. He slipped the flyer into his pocket and, with a last glance at the horizon beyond which your ambulance had vanished, Michael walked away undisturbed, until even his shadow wasn't vaguely visible. And leaving all that useless noise behind, Michael Myers quietly returned to hunt you down.

-

When you reopened your eyes, you were in a different room from the one you were in when you arrived at the hospital. They had anesthetized you. How long have you been unconscious?  
You were gradually registering a presence in the room, a female voice. Calm, gentle. Your dopey gaze roamed, until your eyes met those of the nurse who was still speaking to you with soothing meekness. Her eyes, clear and honest, were ringed by dark shadows, they told about too long nights of work and too few hours of sleep, giving her a tired look, a faded and, at the same time, enchanting beauty. You missed her name. The letters on her ID badge were too small, your glasses probably lying somewhere in the room. You sat up, your body felt as heavy as lead.

"He-- they caught him?"

Those were your first words, tremolous in your raspy whisper. The nurse interrupted the speech that you weren't following anyway, her elegant figure stood near the door, the sweetness in her genuine look mixed with a veiled apprehension.

"Not yet, but the police are literally everywhere, the entire city is on alert. He won't be able to escape much longer."

Your hands grasped on the sheets, your heart leapt.

"Where is my boyfriend? How are my loved ones?"

The tremble in your voice betrayed your fear, but the nurse slightly tilted her head and her gaze softened as a gentle smile crept across her face.

"They're all safe, the police are with them: they've never left them alone."

The nurse hesitated a few moments, then pulled the door to without closing it completely and walked over to your bed.

"Your boyfriend has been amazing. He never stopped looking for you. The whole city was by his side. There were candlelight vigils, demonstrations. The news never stopped showing your face. The monster that did this to you is a notorious mentally ill murderer and when they found out that you-- yeah, I mean... We all want him to be arrested as soon as possible."

"I see, but... I need to talk to my boyfriend, please. It's important."

The nurse didn't seem to approve for some reason, so you insisted. She held her breath, her eyes shone with mercy. You insisted again, a clear desperation in your eyes, and she seemed unsure about what to do.

You lowered your head, a bitter knot tightened your throat. The nurse sat next to you, took a deep breath before talking again.

"I know you want to rejoin your loved ones, go back to your normal life, but you need a little more patience. You can't meet anyone yet, nobody knows you're here, we've barely hinted it to your boyfriend. It's for your own safety."

"I understand, really, but... Just a phone call, a letter, anything! I've been waiting for so long, please. It's vital. I'm begging you."

You looked at her again, your sunken, glassy eyes looked straight into the honest, bright ones of the nurse sitting next to you and finally her reassuring voice spoke to you again.

"I-- Ok. I'll get you a pen and paper later - I'll put them there, on the little desk in the corner - and then I'll hand him your letter. If that can help you somehow..."

You quickly glanced at the desk, then at the nurse again, and immediately nodded.

"Thank you so much."

The nurse lowered her head, swallowed; then she looked at you again, a strange decisiveness shone in her kind eyes.

"Listen to me. You-I've seen your wounds, your body alone tells a story in itself already horrible. I don't even dare imagine the wounds you carry inside you. But I want you to know that you're safe here and that there's a whole city by your side."

Her hand rested on your forearm, you instinctively winced: it was strange to feel such a different touch on your skin. It was strange being touched by someone else. Someone who wasn't--  
And it felt wrong, almost like a threat, despite the genuine compassion of that gentle and reassuring nurse.

"I just want you to know that you're safe here: the doctor who treated that murderer for many years is cooperating with the police. He knows him better than anyone else. He's been the one who proposed to keep you secretly in this facility, letting everyone believe - media included - that you're currently in the hospital in town. There's even the ambulance that picked you up parked outside it, as a precaution. But it's a trap. If that monster tries to kidnap you again, in that hospital he will only find the police ready to arrest him."

Your eyes widened and you swallowed again, a glimmer of hope found its way into you. The nurse continued, her kind eyes were trying to reach you, to reassure you again.

"Maybe I have no right to talk to you like this, but you could be like a daughter for me. I just want you to know that you're no longer alone. We all want to protect you. You, and your loved ones.  
Your room here is guarded, there's nothing to fear. Just worry about recovering.  
Now I have to go: the police and that doctor will be here any second; it won't be a real interrogation, they just want to meet you and talk a bit for now. I know it won't be easy, but you try to stay strong and, if by chance they go too hard on you, don't hesitate to call me, okay?"

You obediently nodded, completely inebriated by that unnatural sense of hope, and the nurse, softly smiling at you once again, gently let go of your forearm and stood up, heading for the door.

"Wait, please."

The nurse stopped immediately, stood listening to you, her gaze still so sweet. So human.

"Why did you sedate me? I wasn't even badly injured, I just fell down the stairs, then..."

She looked at you, her voice calm and reassuring.

"You were in shock and we had to run some tests to find out how you were, so..."

"...And how am I?"

"You're just a bit debilitated, but I'm sure you'll recover soon."

The nurse moved, but you stopped her again, a slight hesitation in your voice.

"May I read my medical records?"

The nurse stood motionless, her figure seemed to barely stiffen.

"I'll bring you the report as soon as they release it: I think they filled in some data wrong and had to correct them..."

Your eyes were watching carefully the nurse's ones, she was still standing between your bed and the door. A meandering, sneaking agitation began to twist in the pit of your stomach, the echoes of a terrible suspicion resounding more and more through your mind. The nurse started walking again, her hand reaching for the doorknob.

"Wait! Please..."

The nurse stopped again, turned her head back to you, a hint of wary apprehension seemed to harden her gentle gaze.  
You remained motionless, sitting on that soft, pure-white bed, your lips parted, the expectation in your gaze. You breathed deeply and, never taking your eyes off hers, your question followed as soft as a sigh, yet burning like a thousand fires:

"Did he get me--? Am I--?"

Agitation and suspicion blended, swirling violently in your stomach, your heart was pounding. The nurse parted her lips, her gaze oozed uneasiness, it felt suspended. You tried again.

"Am I--?"

No matter how hard you tried, you couldn't finish your question, agitation turned to fear, the horror of knowing the answer you suspected silenced the words you had to say. Your hands let go of the sheets and slowly reached your abdomen, hugging it, hinting at it, while your eyes didn't peel off from the wide open eyes of the nurse even for a moment.

...And you saw it.

It was just a matter of seconds, but you saw it. The shadow that veiled her clear and honest eyes, the hesitation that made her lips tighten as she gulped nervously.  
Her gaze flickered down and, after a few, endless moments of heavy silence, her eyes met yours again. She parted her lips to answer you, but she didn't utter a single word. Not a single sound. And then, cracking a half-smile, not at all convincing or reassuring, she shook her head no. Finally, striving to ignore how your eyes widened in terror, she lowered her head and hurried out of your room, leaving you frozen, silent. Lonely in the shock of that tacit and involuntary revelation. A buzz hissed in your ears, a dark feeling of emptiness spread in the pit of your stomach as the first tears watered your vision.

The door closed in front of your eyes and you, alone, still sitting on that soft, pure-white bed, still pressing your hands against your abdomen, felt nothing but that increasingly deafening buzz, while a dark abyss began to open under you.  
The nurse, so sweet and reassuring, had just lied to you.

You were pregnant.

The ringing in your ears was all you could hear.  
Every event, every single moment in that house flashed before your empty eyes, a rapid sequence of events. Unmistakable. Painful. And you rethought how you were every day. The constant feeling of exhaustion, your frequent nausea, the irregularities of your last menstrual period. You saw everything in a different light, everything had a different explanation.  
In this way, it made a lot more sense.  
You never had a true period. You had believed it. You had hoped for it. You needed it too much. That's why you had never considered that your blood loss, so light and diluted, was simply false period: it was just vaginal bleeding, a phenomenon that may happen in the first months of pregnancy. It was more reassuring for you to explain those anomalies with the idea that your menstrual cycle was short and light just because of your enormous stress. As well as your nausea, so strong, especially every time you woke up. It was more reassuring to think that it was caused by the excessive somatization of your suffering, rather than a much more likely pregnancy.  
You had never actually had a period, and at that point, you wouldn't have been surprised at all if you could have found out that Michael had managed to get you pregnant on his first time.  
Of all the long series of cruel mockeries you had suffered, this could only be the worthy and sadistic ending of a horrible story. Your horrible story. The final nail in your coffin.  
In this way, it actually made sense.  
How could you even have hoped? It was inevitable. The Curse of Michael Myers was inevitable for you and it managed to wash over you in ever newer ways. You were pregnant with Michael Myers. The man who left only death behind him, who had devastated you beyond all limits, had instilled a life in you. Everything inside you was dying poisoned, yet your abused body was still able to nurture a life in your womb. An innocent life, blameless. A creature that hadn't asked to exist, but that now wanted to live. A creature that had the right to be loved like any other creature. Could you ever love a creature born of all this? Would you ever find the courage to have an abortion? Killing an innocent creature, blameless. And in a way, become a full-fledged killer, just like him.  
The creature that was growing in your womb had no guilt, but would you have been able to love it unconditionally? Was it right to let it live as if it were your moral duty rather than an act of love? Did it deserve the burden it would have to live with one day, once it knew its origins? What was the right choice to make? And right for whom?

The knot of the most bitter crying of your life tightened your throat in a merciless grip, tears fell warm from your eyes without even the need to blink. The gentle and meek nurse had lied to you - to you, who were like a daughter to her. How could she lie to her daughter about something like this?  
You blinked as the door before your eyes slowly reopened.  
You weren't her daughter, it was easier to lie to you. But why had she done it? You had read the apprehension in her eyes as you hinted at your abdomen, you had sensed her remorse after lying to you, her haste to get out of your room so as not to face the horror in your eyes. She didn't want to lie to you, yet she did. But why, then?  
The door was wide open in front of you, the doorway was walked through by two people: a policeman and an old man. The two approached you, but you were still far, too far from them. They started talking to you, but their words fell deaf to your ears.  
Images of your confinement flashed before your eyes, memories of the newspaper articles and medical files that Michael had let you read about him.  
And then, the sudden, striking realization.

The nurse didn't want to lie to you. The nurse HAD to lie to you.

The policeman fell silent, the old man resumed the conversation; their eyes fixed on yours, your pupils still dilated, still out of focus.  
Samuel Loomis, the eminent psychiatrist you had read about on those papers in your previous bedroom, in your old prison, seemed to speak of Michael as a being who was far beyond human; it never made much sense to you that a man of science, one of the best in his field, made such eccentric official statements. Not until you found out yourself that Michael, in fact, was beyond human. Did Loomis and his colleagues know that Michael was too strong even for death itself? Maybe. You couldn't know for sure. But suddenly you understood why the nurse had lied to you. Everyone knew since the beginning what Michael had done with you before you disappeared, his cum stained the sheets of your bed, revealing to forensics not only he had sex with you, but also his identity. You were an "exceptional case" in the story of that mysterious, inexplicable creature named Michael Myers. And you were even pregnant with him. They knew it, from the medical tests. You weren't just a victim to protect.

You were a human experiment.

They probably feared that, if you found out you were pregnant with your tormentor, you would have an abortion, destroying potential study material. Too precious and rare to risk. They wanted to use you - they wanted to use you and the creature growing in your womb - to try to find out more about Michael Myers. You were supposed to be their unaware human experiment.  
A tidal wave of anger swelled within you, surging like liquid fire through your veins. But you had to keep control, use this baseness to your advantage.  
Gradually you came to yourself, the last part of your plan intertwining with the new, raging determination that pervaded you. Your pupils constricted, focused again and, after having raised an invisible wall all around you, you set your gaze on the two men in front of you. They both seemed to notice how something had switched in you, the old man stopped talking and you turned to the policeman:

"I've waited for you, detective. For so long, in silence. I've been waiting for you to find me, to save me. You never found me and I had to escape on my own. Have you seen where I've been confined all this time?"

The detective slightly tilted his head, a sheer mortification in his words:

"I'm terribly sorry. We retraced your steps and found an old abandoned house. There are still several personal belongings and--"

"I wasn't even that far from where I've been taken. From my home. He hid me right under your nose and you couldn't find me!"

The detective lowered his head, an obvious embarrassment in the words that almost seemed to justify their failure:

"We're very sorry, Madam. Several murders have been traced back to Myers, all occurring in neighboring areas that threw our investigation off track--"

You turned your head to the other person in front of you, not caring to keep listening to the detective's explanations. Your gaze, so fragile and resolute at the same time, met the attentive one of the old man.

"You're his psychiatrist, aren't you?"

He nodded, trying again to introduce himself, but you interrupted him:

"You should know Michael better than anyone: had he ever done something like this?"

The doctor shook his head, his disenchanted gaze seemed a mix of disheartening defeat and impatient curiosity.

"You've seen my body, my wounds, you've seen that house. You know as well as I do that he will come back to hunt me down. I-I'll cooperate. I'll do everything in my power to help with the investigation, to help you catch him. I'll tell you everything, every single detail of what he did to me, what he said to me-- "

The doctor jumped and interrupted you, his wide eyes sparkled with disbelief:

"Did Michael talk to you? What did he tell you? What--"

"Yes, he talked to me, and I almost wish he had never done it!!  
I'll tell you everything. I'll do whatever you ask me to do, I'll be your human bait to catch him, if necessary. Anything, but on one condition: you have to do something for me first."

The doctor remained motionless, his breath caught, both men eagerly awaiting your request. You breathed deeply, your gaze bounced from the detective to the psychiatrist and back again.

"My loved ones are in danger. Especially my boyfriend. I need the police to relocate him, help him resettle elsewhere, far away, even make him change his identity if necessary. He must not be allowed to reunite with me. If that happens, I'm sure Michael will kill him. And if my boyfriend risks to-- "

A sob interrupted you, you swallowed it and with your eyes full of new tears you looked at the doctor.

"If something bad happens to my boyfriend, I'll have no reason to go on living."

The doctor's wide eyes showed all his apprehension without the need to use any words; he looked at the lead detective, silently urged him to accept your simple and reasonable request. And he agreed, assuring you it would be done.  
Almost relieved, you resumed speaking firmly:

"There's another urgent matter, detective. I need it to be known with certainty that, when I got to the diner, I was just looking for a doctor, that I wasn't running away, that I never - NEVER - asked for the police intervention. This, and that I don't want to meet anyone, not even the people closest to me. Say it on the news, in every newspaper, everywhere! It's a fundamental detail. I don't care if, to be convincing, you have to say that I'm traumatized or incapable of understanding and acting, that I'm crazy; what really matters is that it's known that I have NOT tried to run away from Michael, that I haven't betrayed him. I know it seems absurd, but you have to trust me: this detail can really make the difference between life and death, not only for me, but also for the people I care about."

The lead detective slightly frowned at that unusual request, but he nodded, assuring you that it would have been done as you asked that very day. You thanked him and, feeling relieved, you stated your last condition:

"I don't want to be locked up in a clinic. I want to go back home. I'll follow any kind of therapy, bug my house, do whatever you want: I'll do my part. Just let me go back home. Michael will come back for me and I'm ready to be the bait you may need to catch him. I won't back out. Use me to catch him and, when you finally lock him up in a cell, I'll finally be free to tell you everything without risking any further deaths."

The two men briefly looked at each other, silence hovered in your room, the doctor seemed to persuade the detective with the sole influence of his gaze. Then the detective nodded and, taking his cellphone out of his pocket and bringing it to his ear, started a conversation as he headed out of your room.

You and the doctor stood looking at each other, in his eyes a myriad of questions forcibly postponed by your resolve. You thought back to Michael's last moments of life, the memory of THAT feeling, his feeling, what you had felt as well, and everything came in waves inside you, making you shiver at the fluttering sensations in your stomach:

"He-- I saw something in him--"

The doctor eyed you keenly, intensely, but you stopped, falling silent and putting up your walls again while trying to push away those absurd, unsettling sensations you felt during your last moments with Michael. And, despite the knot tightening your throat, you sighed and calmly resumed talking to him.

"It was all true, doctor. Michael is-- That creature isn't a man.  
I'll tell you everything, if that can help you stop him, I promise you. But not while he's still out there. I just.. can't."

The doctor kept staring at you, a strange compassion mixed with the frightening awareness in his eyes. A resigned and stratified knowledge, which became more and more conscious over time, vivid in those eyes that, like yours, had seen something that went far beyond the limits of the human.

"I recognize what's in your gaze, Madam. You've seen it, too. You know it, too. I never wanted anyone else to witness what I witnessed during those unforgettable therapy sessions. We're both fighting the same battle."

You barely nodded, lowered your head. And with another sigh, you dismissed Michael's psychiatrist. He said nothing more and, giving you one last worried look, turned and walked silently out of your room.

-

It hadn't been easy to encapsulate all your love in a white sheet of paper. Especially in the mental and emotional conditions in which you were reduced. A heart gone scorched earth, a shattered mind, an entire existence totally defiled and devastated. But that was really the only thing you could do to protect your boyfriend and help him be freed by this oppression. To help him make the right choice. The last reminiscence of what you once were. You would have never been able to talk to him, to look him in the eye. You felt too dirty, too devastated. You wouldn't have taken the blow, you wouldn't have been strong enough.

It hadn't been easy to write down all the horrors that had wiped out the person he knew on a simple white sheet of paper, to explain to him how your love bond would save both of your lives only if he agreed to never contact you again. Not with Michael on the loose. You wrote him about how he and his pure love were the only real reasons why you managed to survive against Michael until that moment. But that battle had consumed you beyond the limits and now the person he loved had been seduced, corrupted and ultimately destroyed. You were no longer the person who was smiling in the photo printed on that flyer and, if he really didn't want that missing person to disappear completely, then it was better that he never knew you for who or what you had become. For what Michael had turned you into. You no longer felt worthy of receiving his pure love, you no longer felt capable of receiving his pure love. By renouncing you, your boyfriend would have saved himself and, in a way, also yourself. The memory of you, the real you.  
You knew it wouldn't be easy for him to accept those conditions, but you also knew he would understand. He was the last keeper of the real you, the guardian of that part of you that was still pure and free and that could keep living only within him. He was the love of your life, but the only way to save both of you was to be apart. Follow the plan. And destroy that letter as soon as he finished reading it.

It hadn't been easy to say goodbye to the love of your life with a white sheet of paper, written in your jittery handwriting that trembled with pain, and wet with your uncontrollable tears. And when the nurse came back to your room on her night shift to tell you she had handed your boyfriend your letter, you told yourself you had done the right thing. When the detective told you that your boyfriend, despite obvious reluctance and enormous, excruciating pain, had immediately accepted the relocation, you knew you had done the right thing. This, after both the nurse and the detective relayed your boyfriend's personal message to you: his pure and innocent love communicated in those code words that only you and him could understand. And so, you got confirmation that he knew everything, that he understood everything, and that soon he would start a new life elsewhere. Free and away from you. Safe. And, with no ties to you anymore, Michael couldn't have felt the need to kill him. Your boyfriend was safe and you did the right thing.

You didn't know if you would have ever coped with all this, if you would recover from your traumas, if you could ever hug him again, start over. But your last sacrifice, your last act of love, had guaranteed the salvation of his life and the freedom of his mind, and that was all that really mattered.  
You could have waited. Everything else could have waited.

-

It was late at night by now, but your room wasn't plunged into pitch darkness as it was in your old bedroom. In your old prison. You got out of bed, your hospital gown softly rustled against your body: the feeling of truly clean clothes and sheets wasn't bad at all. You walked up to the window - this one wasn't boarded up, wasn't covered - and flung it open. The wind blew the hem of your hospital gown up, ruffled your hair. You breathed deeply that free air, your skin brushed by the wind and illuminated by the moon. It was such a bright night. So quiet.  
You listened to that silence, interrupted from time to time by the muffled indistinct little chat of the guards outside your door. The secrecy of your temporary accommodation in this hospital facility, the trap set in the other hospital. Maybe even for you there was hope, maybe the nightmare could really end. Your hand rested on your abdomen, the dilemma of your choice still looming. The shape wasn't visible yet, you still had time to think. It had been a long, very long day. It wasn't the right time to decide. You sighed in the wind, took a last look at the clear night sky, at the silvery face of the moon; you left the window ajar and went back to bed, your face towards the closed door of your room, the guards had stopped whispering. It must have been very late but you were used to not looking for a watch. You lay down, listening to the wind, as your face sank into a pillow that smelled of freshness, that was truly clean. Who knows: maybe one day, you too would have come back feeling clean. You turned in bed, your face draped in silver, softly caressed by the wind. You closed your eyes and gently abandoned yourself in the quiet of that night.

Your consciousness was softly drifting into sleep, embracing more and more the dark waves of oblivion, the gentle breath of the wind still delicate on your skin. The night took you with it and the more you basked in the caresses of the wind, the more your consciousness sank into oblivion. A gentle caress of the wind on your skin, and its breath lulled you into a loving embrace. Another gentle caress, and the breath barely brushed a few strands of hair away from your face, the tickling sensation pulling your consciousness back. Yet another gentle caress on your cheek, and that breath felt even touchable and warm on your skin. You opened your eyes again, but the pale face that was hovering over you was no longer the silvery face of the moon.  
You jumped, scared to death, your instinctive scream choked, forced down your throat by the huge hand that was covering your mouth. You tried to clutch at anything, to wriggle, but the rest of his body was already pressing against yours, trapping you, preventing you from any possible movement.

...As always.

Just a few moments to recognize the pale mask looming over you. Just a few moments to remember the strength and power of those deadly hands. Just a few moments, and squirming didn't make sense anymore, because who was holding you still was HIM.  
He had already found you. Michael had already found you.

You tried to calm down as fast as you could, you closed your eyes, your mouth pressed shut under his calloused palm, your heart beating hard against your chest, your nose whistling with every greedy breath you took. You could already smell the scent of his skin mixed with the latex of his mask, the warmth of his regular breath on your eyelids. Michael had come back and had already found you. The misdirection of your ambulance, the trap in the other hospital, the guards outside your door - all those precautions were just dust in the wind. Your vague hope was just dust in the wind. Everything broke down, everything disintegrated, everything vanished. Just a few moments, and your dying hope left a void that was once again invaded by darkness, the same darkness you knew so well.  
It felt so familiar.  
You reopened your eyes and searched for his, peering through the black holes staring at you. The light of that silver night enveloped him and your gaze finally met his eyes, already bored into yours. And, in front of the unfazed and impassive face of his mask, everything seemed almost back to normal.

Your heart slowed down in your chest and your body fell limp in Michael's patient iron grip. A deep silence fell over you, broken only by the gentle murmuring of the wind and the discontinuous muffled, distant whispering of the guards outside your door.  
Michael felt that you had regained your composure and, never taking his eyes off of you, he slightly loosened his grip around your body. His eyes sparkled from behind the black eye slits, winked; you remained still under his body and he, noticing and appreciating your obedience, cautiously began to loosen the grip of his hand on your mouth, too. You barely blinked, never stopped looking at his eyes, sharp and piercing, and you didn't need any warning to know you shouldn't have made a sound. Not a single sound.  
Michael's gaze remained fixed in your eyes as his hand slowly trailed lower, letting go of your mouth and fully revealing your moonlit face. His hand slightly touched your neck and rested on the mattress, his eyes never left yours. You could have screamed, revealed his presence to the guards outside, but you knew they would be killed, just like the two boys. And, even worse, you knew you couldn't have screamed, because your voice was as if swallowed up, muted by that sharp and immense gaze that alone was enough to keep you pinned to that soft, pure-white hospital bed. A distant echo let you think about your loved ones, the bonds you had to untie for their own safety. The danger of possible repercussions. The silence intensified, expanded, thickened under his all-embracing, all-encompassing gaze. With no way out. And suddenly it was as if you never had a voice capable of screaming, it was as if your voice itself was silence. You were afraid, you were terrified, trapped.

Subjugated.

No, you couldn't have screamed, you never could.  
Not even if you wanted to.

Michael slightly lifted up, settling himself better on top of you, and gently pulled the sheets aside, revealing your motionless body beneath him. He remained still, straddling you, looking at you. Contemplating you. His gaze swept over your entire body and you instinctively pressed your legs together, the hem of your hospital gown slid up along your thighs. His breathing was slightly heavier and, as soon as his gaze came back to your eyes, he tilted his head and you, swallowing forever your voice made of silence, were pervaded by a completely and utterly inevitable resignation. Everything was simply back to normal. To your normal.

Michael kept staring at you, the unstoppable power of his gaze grabbed you, filled you: what were his intentions? Did he find out about the poisoning? Did he want revenge? You gasped and clenched your jaw, you didn't dare to take your eyes off his even for a moment. He kept looking at you while his hand gradually came down; long fingers gently lifted the hem of your hospital gown, dragging it up over your navel, revealing your panties. Your gaze flickered, your heart was pounding. Never averting his eyes from yours, Michael leaned over you, until the nose of his mask was only inches from yours. Your heartbeat was spiking, your fear mingled more and more with the need to understand his intentions, to know. He barely tilted his head and, staring at you, slipped his hand down your panties. Your lips parted, you took a sharp breath: were these really his only intentions? The hand brushed your pubic hair, slipped lower and you spread your legs as best you could, considering they were still trapped between his mighty ones. Michael's breath puffed out of his mask, its warmth caressed your face: he always liked it when you cooperated. His fingers circled between your folds, tickled you, a soundless moan escaped from your lips. The weight of that silence intensified, your need to know grew more and more urgent. His fingers found your clit, slipped down, opened to separate your labia, your breath was heavier. Tension and fear were stirring in your stomach, the paranoia that Michael had understood your whole plan and was about to punish your betrayal was simply overwhelming. You swallowed and, distressed, you couldn't help but break that unbearable silence with the most imperceptible whisper:

"I'm sorry, Michael."

You hoped to receive a sign from him, that he would tilt his head.  
He didn't.  
He kept staring at you as his fingers stroke your clit. You slightly winced, but you tried to keep silence. His fingers left your clit, aiming to your entrance, pressed against it for several, endless seconds. Until, tilting his head, he smoothly slipped two fingers into your pussy. Your lips parted, you breathed greedily and Michael pushed his fingers deeper, curling them, squeezing the walls behind your pubic bone. He was slow, deliberate. Everything lay still and silent, everything except his fingers, thick and deep inside you, stroking you, pushing inside, stunning you. He was slow, deliberate, perhaps even calm. Your tension began to fade, your held breath proved your complicity in keeping the silence he had tacitly imposed.  
You were always so obedient.

The first wet sounds came out of your pussy and Michael gradually slowed down the movements of his fingers until he pulled them out. He lifted himself, straddling you again, his fingers, coated with your liquids, were hovering in front of his nose, his gaze still fixed on you. He brought his other hand to his mask and, pulling it from the edge, took it off, dropping it somewhere next to him. His free hand ran through his long messy hair, pushing it back, completely showing his face. The silvery light of the moon flooded his pale skin, gave rise to a delicate interplay of light and shadow dancing between the features of his strong jaw and his soft lips, reflected in his eyes still bored into yours. They seemed to sparkle in the night and you couldn't help but feel all your fear give way to the yearning need to return to receive that strange comfort that only he could make you feel. His eyes were still ferocious and affectionate and the message twinkling behind his all-encompassing gaze, without needing a voice to be spoken, told you everything.

And everything seemed to unravel in your mind.

Michael brought his wet fingers closer to his nose and, keeping his gaze fixed on your eyes, breathed in the scent of your essence. Deeply. Becoming intoxicated.  
His bottomless, all-absorbing gaze seemed to show you everything you needed to know. And you now knew that there was nothing left inside you other than what that gaze wanted. What Michael wanted. It was a strange feeling. It felt as if, having let go of all your bonds and everything that tied you to your past life, even the last part of you had gone with them. You had run away from that house only to give peace to those who were still looking for you, waiting for you and, now that they knew the truth about what had happened to you, you had freed them from the miserable existence of a perpetual wait, of an endless search. From the pain of those who remain, waiting, looking for who's missing. And just when you, even if for a short, had returned to hope that there might be freedom for you too, Michael had already found you and, with the power of his gaze alone, he regained possession of your hopes, your every will was canceled. There was nothing left of you to hide, to protect. There was no more reason to survive because you weren't there anymore. Because you were gone. You were gone.

Michael was still breathing your scent, his lashes lowered on the languishing eyes that didn't stop piercing yours.  
All that was left now was just you and him, his gaze alone was too strong for your whole person. And that was how you realized that it no longer mattered whether Michael understood that you poisoned him or not, or even the reason why you did it. He was already seeing what was left, he already knew what was left. Nothing else mattered. For this reason he was calm. You could have screamed, alerted the guards, but you didn't. You never would have been able to do that. He already knew. He was just silently waiting for you to fully realize it as well.

With his eyes fixed on yours, Michael stopped smelling your essence and let his wet fingers slide down, brushing against his skin and placing them on his lips. His tongue slid out of his mouth, running along the sides of his soaked fingers, licking your essence off, slowly savoring it, intensely. And never taking his eyes off yours, he put a finger in his mouth, sucked it, came out clean. Then he stuck the other finger, pure delight spelled all over his features.  
And under his patient, all-encompassing gaze, you too finally realized that there was nothing left inside you but your bond with him. With nothing left to defend, with no one left to protect, you were alone. It was just you and him left. And he was too strong for you alone.  
You had run away from that house to give peace to the people who were waiting for you, who loved you; your salvation had never been a priority: it would have depended solely on the skill of the police, of the outside world, since you, alone, would have never been able to get rid of Michael. But Michael had already found you, he had been too fast for you to even hope. You could have screamed and alerted the guards. But you knew how it felt to betray Michael and, faced with the ancestral fear that he caused you and the boundless and gloomy loneliness in which you were already sinking, it felt almost natural - frighteningly natural - for you to choose instead not to renounce that unique privilege that you could still have. He was lovesick, you were the only one for him, and this, in front of the wasteland that you had become, was the only comfort you could feel. And now that you had just finished emptying yourself, you could only be filled with Michael, just Michael. Game over. You were trapped. You were his.

He finished cleaning his fingers of your liquids and the satisfied pop of his lips brought you back to reality. Michael slightly shifted his body to one side, so as to be able to grab your legs still under him and, bending them, to move them in front of him; he put them both to one side and reached out towards your hips. His fingers hooked beneath the waistband of your underwear and you, so obediently, lifted your pelvis as best you could to help him take it off. His eyes, always fixed on you, almost seemed to wink at you because of your welcome cooperation and then, slowly, he brought your legs against his shoulder, holding both of your ankles in one hand, while the other slid your panties from your thighs down until he pulled them off. He kept your legs against his shoulder as he brought your underwear close to his nose. Still gazing intently into your eyes, Michael took a deep breath of your scent imprinted on the fabric and the bulge in your garment showed up that his tongue was running over your sticky residue. You slightly winced and Michael, staring at you with languorous eyes, stopped licking your underwear and crumpled it into his hand, slipping it into a pocket. A keepsake of this moment. Of you.

A muffled sound came from behind the door, one guard was saying something undefined to the other. You glanced in their direction and immediately after to Michael: you felt agitated, while he didn't seem to care about them. Your uncertain gaze was again harpooned by his, intense and penetrating. In control. His hand reached out to his side, retrieved his knife. Your gaze darted to the blade, the moonlight reflected on it only for a moment and Michael, armed, leaned over you, your legs falling sideways next to him. Long strands of hair fell softly from his head onto you and, like a private curtain, shielded you from everything outside. He briefly glanced at the collar of your hospital gown and then he immediately returned to look into your eyes. He held the fabric steady in one hand, while the other, with slow, controlled movements, plunged the blade into your clothing, tearing it easily, until it was perfectly cut in half. Michael stopped, his breathing was heavy; he placed the knife on the bedside table and, lifting up, he let his eyes run all over your body, naked and at his complete disposal. His breathing became heavier, and as he better parted the two halves of your gown, you gasped at the new sound of muffled voices behind your door, your gaze bouncing from Michael to the door and back again. His eyes left your body and darted back to yours; then, grabbing your ankles, he slowly spread your legs apart, opening them wide and placing them on either side of his waist. You swallowed nervously: you were naked, completely exposed to Michael's hungry gaze, while outside your door the two guards were chatting quietly, completely oblivious of what was happening in your room. Michael didn't care about them and, letting go of your ankles, ran the calloused palms of his hands up along your legs, between your thighs, following the soft curves that widened along your hips and narrowed around your waist. A shiver ran through you and Michael watched as the mere delicate touch of his big strong hands sent goosebumps all over your body; he kneaded your breasts, groped them without hurting you and watched how your abdomen jolted with every touch on your body, how the moonlight painted your pale skin silver, flooding the white sheets, and he gloated at that thought that those sheets wouldn't remain pristine for much longer.

Michael wheezed, let go of your breasts and, as he bent over you, you both noticed how this bed didn't creak with each movement. He positioned himself better between your legs, his warm bulge against your wet pussy. He stared at you, his face hovering over yours as his hips rolled forward, starting to rub against you, the fabric of his mechanic’s coveralls, rough against your exposed pussy, was soaking up your scent. You looked at his eyes, how the caresses of your pussy softened his gaze as he kept rubbing his lenght against you, how some locks of his hair swayed with your quick breaths. One guard spoke to the other, your eyes darted to the door, the guard needed to go out to smoke; alarmed, you looked at Michael again, but he idly closed in on you, his lips were warm and soft, his tongue slipped into your mouth, wrapped around yours as he kept grinding against you. He kissed you softly and lifted up, another look at your eyes and he moved, dipping his face into the spot between your neck and shoulder. You leaned your head back and Michael pressed his nose against your soft skin. And he breathed in your scent. Deeply. Again and again.  
And the more he breathed in your scent, the harder he got. You gasped, a shiver ran through you and Michael, using one hand, moved your hair off your neck and dragged his tongue along it. You shivered again and he skimmed his teeth along your skin, sucking it into his mouth. You shuddered, your hands grasped onto his broad back, your hips already bucked to meet his movements. Michael, still gently rubbing up against you, moved lower on your collarbone, and sucked your skin again. A slight puff escaped you, his hair swayed and Michael lifted himself, his face inches from yours, his breath warm on your lips. He stopped, then shifted his weight to the side, slipping a hand between your body and his, looking for your pussy. You couldn't help but spread your legs even more and he, barely pushing his crotch away, planted his hand on your pussy.  
He kept looking into your eyes as he stroked your clit, circling and pressing his fingers around it, and then, with a single smooth motion, he slipped them into you. You jerked, your moan held in your throat, and Michael curled his fingers, pushing them deeper, stroking you from the inside. And he kissed you again. Intensely. More and more hard, without restraint; and the more his fingers pushed inside you, the hungrier his kiss became. His fingers filled you, while the emptiness in your stomach increased, the knot inside you tightened.  
Michael detached from your lips, lifted up, pulled out his fingers of your soaked pussy. He grabbed your thighs, holding them wide open, and bent down to your bosom. His mouth kissed it, his tongue slipped out, teased one of your hardened nipple; he sucked your soft skin and rose, moving onto your other breast. He bit and sucked it, his tongue bumped against your hardened nipple again. He kissed your soft skin and lifted his head only to move further down to another part of your body. He sucked on your skin, nibbled and then moved lower again, leaving behind a long trail of hickeys and saliva.  
His every touch, his every glance, and you felt yourself sinking, blending with him more and more, desiring him, clinging to him just to keep yourself from being lost in nothingness.

Michael lifted up, taking a few seconds to admire your pale moonlit skin riddled with all his dark marks. You looked at him and he, staring back into your eyes, took a hold of your legs again and moved further down, until he was face to face with your pussy gaping around nothing. He came closer and the tension tightened the knot in your stomach, the expectation of what was going to happen, the fear of not being able to keep silence.  
And right when you tried to dissuade Michael, his tongue brushed against your entrance, licking away the leaked liquids of your arousal. You flinched, swallowing your moan with difficulty and, as he was about to repeat the movement, you pressed both your hands against your mouth, so as to muffle any sound that you couldn't stop with the help of your willpower alone. Michael pressed his face against your pussy, his tongue penetrated you, his nose bumped against your clit and you squirmed at the sudden pleasure, clenching up and pressing harder your hands against your mouth. He pushed his tongue deeper, rubbing it against your walls, tasting and savouring you intensely. Your muscles contracted, your thighs trembled against his hands and he sucked hard, making you twist and struggle to keep silence. Then he stopped, his tongue came out and started swiping over your clit, letting your burning need grow mercilessly; his tongue kept lapping and tapping, electrifying your swollen clit and you writhed with the excruciating pleasure that ran through your whole body. With each whip of his tongue against your clit, your thighs tried to clench around him, but Michael held them tightly open, while his hair was tickling your skin.  
His mouth wrapped around your labia, he sucked greedily and you squeezed your eyes shut, chocking another muffled moan down your throat, pressing your thighs against his unmovable hands. Michael shoved his tongue into you again, licking and savoring your essence with longing, making you writhe and twitch and then, pausing and breathing hard against your pussy, he slowly let go of your legs and lifted himself up on you.

His eyes returned to look at yours, his gaze more and more piercing, more and more burning, his chest rising and sinking with each panting breath. Everything was so slow and intense, tremendously intense, and you couldn't ignore the poignant sensation that had already been creeping in you. Michael never stopped staring at you and the more you looked at him, the more his gaze pervaded you: and, with his every look, with his every touch, it was as if he wanted to make that night last forever.  
A gust of wind made you shiver, cooling your exposed pussy; Michael stared at you through the scattered locks of his messy hair and, never taking his eyes off of yours, he grabbed the slider of his zipper and slowly pulled it down.  
He parted the two halves of his jumpsuit, his gaze still fixed on your eyes, and shrugged the sleeves off of his shoulders, leaving them dangle at his sides, his muscles even more visible in the clear moonlight. His eyes twinkled in yours as his thumbs, hooking under the waistband, pulled down his boxer briefs. His cock bounced out, huge, fully hard, your most primal part clenched down at the mere sight of his manhood erected and twitching in need just for you.  
Another gust of wind, another shiver, your whole existence seemed harpooned by that penetrating gaze, wrapped and tied to those eyes, so fierce and dark yet so capable of shining with a twisted and unique affection only for you. Only and exclusively for you. And the more his gaze pervaded you and spread its roots out in the depths of your being, the more his exclusivity towards you seduced you, enticed you. He made sense of yourself. Nothing of you had left untouched, nothing. Everything was gone in the wind. There was only him, the mysterious force with the shape of a man, whose hands were fatal to everyone except for you. The same hands that were now caressing your legs and that made you feel almost alive, tempting you, pushing you to anchor yourself to him so as not to fly away in the wind. And that little part in you that was still alive was paradoxically bonded to him, to the creature of death who kept looking at you with a sick affection that you weren't allowed to reject.  
All that was left alive in you was your bond with Michael. And you were even pregnant with him.

One hand stopped on your inner thigh, groped the flesh with the carved promise of your bond, while the other hoisted your other leg over his shoulder. With his eyes still fixed on yours, Michael grabbed his cock, his tip parted your folds, allowing his length to rest between them. You couldn't help clenching down again, waves of arousal washed over you, filling the emptiness in your stomach with inevitable, impatient expectation, as his warm length gently started rubbing up against your pussy, letting your slippery labia kiss him, coat him with your fluids. Michael didn't take his gaze away from yours as he kept rubbing his huge cock against you, his fat tip teasing your clit and gliding over, torturing you with the irresistible sensation of the plump, velvety skin of his shaft, and he watched in raptures as your body kept trembling, silently asking for more, as your lips parted in soundless moans, revealing how much you desired him.  
He took a deep, shuddering breath, his cock twitched and he slowly stopped; then he grabbed the sheets behind him, dragging them over his shoulders, shielding both of your bodies from the light breeze; he barely tilted his head, his eyelashes lowered on his dreamy gaze that spread and wrapped its roots more and more around your very essence. And slowly, without even blinking, Michael leaned over you.  
Your leg slipped off his shoulder as he slid smoothly between your legs, his heavy breath was warm on your parted lips, his hard cock was hot against your hungry pussy. His intense gaze became total as Michael closed in on you and trapped you in a long, passionate kiss. Slow and devouring, as if it were everything, as if it were to last forever. He rolled his hips inside you and you couldn't help but follow his movements and grind against him; his fat tip pressed against your soaked entrance, slipped up, his entire length glided against your clit, your moans muffled into each other's mouth. His tongue rubbed against yours as his cock rubbed between your soggy folds, fueling the flames inside you, making it impossible to resist. His strong arms encircled you, caged you beneath him, his hair followed his movements with the delicacy of feathers.

Your need grew more and more urgent and your hands ended up wandering along his mighty body before you could even realize it. You kept grinding against his cock, your legs, completely wide open, were inviting him inside you, begging him to fill you up, to satiate that urgent, almost painful need. Your hands traveled up along his broad shoulders, your fingers entangled themselves into his long hair, pulling him closer to you. Michael sucked your tongue into his mouth, licked it, and then he dragged himself from your lips down your cheek, panting in your ear and you held him even tighter to you. His hips rocked against you, your need ever more pressing, and your hands traveled down his large back. You found the hem of his black t-shirt and you couldn't resist sliding your hands beneath it, so as to feel the warmth of his skin, the strenght of his twitching muscles. Michael licked your cheek, grazed his teeth against it, his cock bulging against your needy pussy. You kept rubbing up desperately against him, your pelvis bucked and joined his, your hands clung to his back, his muscles contracting under your desperate touch. He liked it. Michael dove into the side of your neck, licking it, sucking it. Biting it. You groaned, the heated sound escaped sudden and uncontrolled from your lips, your desperate need grew, made your body writhe and tremble. Michael came back up and his face hovered inches from yours. Your eyes looked into his, completely immersed in yours and time seemed to be suspended, floating all around you.

The moonlight reflected in his eyes, flooded his face, wrapped him in an almost ethereal aura. He was frightening and attractive, like a dark call, primordial and magnetic, capable of making you feel terrified and protected at the same time. An absurd, twisted paradox. Baffling. All-encompassing.  
Your heavy breathing remained held in those never-ending moments and his gaze, indelible and immense, wrapped completely around your very being, caging you, swallowing you, sealing the indissoluble bond between you and him. You were bonded and blended forever.  
Forever.  
And it was as if your very soul was sucked into those infinite eyes, your whole existence engulfed in the destiny he had chosen for you, in the curse that you could never break, in that gaze that was so ferocious and yet so doting just for you. You looked at the man before your eyes, and you saw once again the mystery beyond himself, his absolute purity, so loose and free.  
All this time you had been trying to understand Michael, to define him, explain him. You hoped this attitude would have helped to find a solution, to find a way, and instead you ended up getting bogged down, sinking deeper and deeper into his abyss, losing yourself, disintegrating. Fading.  
You had always thought of Michael as a murderer who unexpectedly ended up being driven by an inordinate lust towards you; except you knew by now you were wrong about it, it was more than that; he must have seen something in you from before he revealed himself to you and you knew by now that his unrestrained lust was just his most primal and immediate expression of what he had discovered to feel for you. Of THAT feeling you glimpsed while he was dying in your arms.  
You had always thought of Michael as a psychopath who unexpectedly ended up being obsessed with you, never really considering stable or even possible his ability to feel something more, something real for you. But you were wrong again, he wasn't a hollow thing, and he let you feel it while he was dying in your arms. Michael again was more than that.  
He was so rudimentary and yet so complex. He was beyond every label. Michael couldn't really be defined, he had no limits. He was free, pure, absolute. Simply, purely Michael Myers.

It was absurd.

You had fought so much for the love you felt for the people you cared about, for your old bonds: they were the source of your strength, of your will to survive. Everything that kept you alive, that made you resist the dark call of the Boogeyman who was so obsessed with you. You wanted to understand Michael, it was normal and, in your battle, even necessary. But trying to understand Michael, to define him, hadn't been wise: the more you tried to grasp him, the more he turned elusive and changed shape, the more you tried to reach him, the more he used your attempts to pierce through you and absorb you, corrupting and moulding you. Faced with the influence Michael had on you, the memory of the love you wanted to protect dug deep wounds into your soul, wounds filled with guilt, filth, unworthiness. Leaving you vulnerable, increasingly vulnerable, and ready to be devoured by Michael. And in doing so, the love that initially gave you strength during your fight to survive, in the long term developed your weakness. And now that there was nothing left of your old, healthy bonds, you could no longer remember who you were, you could no longer feel motivated to shield yourself from his dark lure, to react. You remained helpless, subjugated and defeated, crushed under the weight of his enormous power over you, sucked and absorbed in his purity without labels, without bonds other than the one with himself. He was simply, purely Michael Myers and you almost admired him. He was nothing but his name, the same name that had engulfed yours, absorbing and disintegrating it inside his, until you became a single being with him on all levels. Your fate, your curse. You existed only thanks to him. Only for him. Before his immense power, all you could do was succumb. The feeble flame burned itself out.  
And suddenly, letting yourself sink into him felt tremendously, irresistibly natural. The only thing you could still do.

Michael watched you raptly in the moonlight, all his being shown before your lost eyes as it pervaded you, devoured you entirely. All the purity, all the immensity of his being blended with yours and, without saying anything, he told you everything.  
The eyes of both of you sparkled in the moonlight, his face, as angelic as demonic, was softened by the most imperceptible smile and, closing in on you, Michael kissed you lovingly, settling better between your legs, rolling his hips forward. The fat tip of his cock pressed against your entrance and, with a single push, Michael slid smoothly inside you. You inhaled deeply, air whistled through your nose, your back arched. Michael's cock slowly entered inside you, opening you inch by inch, moving within your walls as he plunged deeper and deeper. His tongue wrapped around yours as his cock sank completely inside you, stopped only by the natural barrier of your cervix. Michael parted from your lips and, staring at your face, pulled back, leaving only the tip inside. You wailed out, your lips parted in an unspoken plea, your fingers digging desperately into his wide back. Michael kept looking at you and, rolling his hips forward, gently plunged inside you again, slowly dragging in and out only half of his length, bumping and stroking your clit, pushing your need to the limit. Your pleading eyes sought his, your hands trailed lower along his sides. Michael stared at you, rocking against you, only half of his cock kept slipping in and out, until he reduced you to a visible, shaking mess, until you closed your eyes, craving for every single inch of him inside you.  
And, just as you reopened your eyes to beg him, Michael, with his gaze still fixed on you, thrust completely inside you, making you greedly gasp for breath. He paused, stayed deep inside you and you could finally feel full. Your hands slipped lower, clinging to his butt in a silent plea not to leave you empty again. Michael narrowed his eyes and, as his face was about to sink in the side of your neck, you caught a glimpse of his smile getting wider. You shuddered, a rousing agitation pooled in your stomach, your fingertips dug into his flesh as he, licking you just below your earlobe, barely pulled back before slowly plunge himself back into you, rocking against you. Your legs opened wider, your hips followed his movements, your hands pulled him to you, pressing him with need into your depths. Michael's cock rubbed against your pleasurable spot, his pelvis gently crashed into yours, stroking your clit, and with each rocking thrust, with each voluptuous dip inside you, the heat in your abdomen expanded, your knot tightened.

A muffled whisper came from behind the door, the guard had come back from his smoke break, but he was far, too far for you to care. You swallowed, your hands, tightly clung to Michael's butt, kept pressing him into you, deeper and deeper, his huge cock plunged completely, lingered and slowly dragged out each push, rocking against you with each thrust, rubbing against all your sweet spots. And he kept doing it, again and again, spreading the flames inside you, making you feel high. Michael's face was sunk in your neck, deeply breathing in your scent, and the more he got intoxicated by you, the more his pace intensified. His cock impaled you, filled you, built up the searing pressure inside you; you, shrouded in his long hair, breathed deeply his scent, strong and masculine, and it filled your nostrils, made you addicted. Michael rocked against you, every push, every slow deep thrust, and his huge cock seemed to grow bigger and bigger, a giant mass inside you that occupied everything, took everything, and you wanted more, even more. Michael grunted, the sound muffled against your skin, one hand reached for your breast, fondling and squeezing it. You moaned and pressed your face into the curve between his neck and shoulder, the need to muffle every sound, to keep silence. His scent pervaded you, you couldn't stop inhaling it, and your hands quickly grabbed onto his back for more stability. Michael groaned, the moist warmth of his breath on your skin, and he picked up his pace. It was perfect, so damn perfect. Your hips followed his movements in sync, you rubbed and push against him, your pussy sucked him greedily inside your depths, while his cock kept sweetly abusing all your sweet spots, again and again.

Michael let go of your breasts and his hand slid under your body, looking for your ass. He took a hold of it, pulled the skin taut and you gasped against his skin. A shiver ran through you, your pussy tightened around his cock, your arousal grew, your mind went blank. Michael kept rocking against you at a steady and perfect pace, his cock squashing your warm walls, the tight knot in your core so close to snap. Your hands remained firmly clinging to his large back, your face fully pressed against his neck and you, completely mad with his scent, kissed him, his hot skin caressed by your lips. Michael shuddered and groaned, his cock twitched, his whole body seemed to be crossed by a new and sudden burst of excitement and his pace all but doubled. Another shiver ran through you and your pussy clenched around his cock again as he pumped harder inside you, over and over, pushing you increasingly closer to the edge. With your moans muffled into each other's skin, the room was filled only with the wet sounds of your pussy slapped by Michael's powerful thrusts and the rustle of the sheets over your entwined bodies.

Another mighty thrust, another drive of his hips inside you, and the pressure became unbearable, your knot tighter; Michael gasped and pressed himself harder against your body, both of his hands now grabbing harshly your ass, pulling your skin, spreading your pussy. You moaned, felt the wave swell in your depths every time Michael slammed into you. You were close, tremendously close and, feeling so full of him, you pulled and held him tight, completely immersing yourself in his body heat, in his scent, as his heavy breathing echoed in your ear. He let go of your ass and, using the bed to have better stability, shoved his cock deeper, vigorously, and kept rocking against you, compressing and squeezing your walls, jerking and rubbing against your pleasurable spots.  
Another shiver swept through you, the wave getting bigger and closer, ready to overwhelm you. More liquids dripped out of your sputtering pussy, you felt him breathe your scent and, as soon as you heard him moan with need into your ear, the elastic band inside you snapped. Powerful, unstoppable shockwaves washed over you, swept through you, electrifying spasms that ran throughout your whole body. Michael lifted his head just in time, his dazed gaze watching how the power of your orgasm spelled all over your face. Your eyes rolled in the back of your head, your lips parted in a soundless scream as your ecstatic bliss poured into you in unbridled, scorching waves. Your legs twitched around him, your body stiffened, completely pierced by the huge cock that didn't stop abusing you. Your pussy wrapped tight around him, sucked him with a myriad of spasmodic clenches that vibrated powerfully, reverberating through your whole being. And in those few, intense seconds, everything was gone, vanished.  
Everything, except that absolute and total bliss.

Michael watched every moment of your pleasure showed by your face and, as you gradually descended from your peak, your body lost strength; your head lolled back, but Michael, grabbing your hair, held it pinned in front of his eyes. His breath hitched and his pace doubled, seeking his release inside you. He pumped violently, your legs dangling limp with his powerful thrusts and, riding until your last clench around his cock, wallowing in the expression of pure ecstasy on your face, Michael prepared to finally reach his own end. He thrust hard, mercilessly, again and again, until he stuttered: his head dropped on your face, his forehead resting on yours and, with one last, mighty push, Michael stiffened, sinking completely into you. His body shook, his cock swelled and throbbed and he, barely holding back his groans, released gushes of hot cum deep inside you, flooding your walls, filling you to the brim.

-

Everything stood still in your room, your waning breaths gradually faded to silence.  
Michael was laying collapsed on you, motionless, his forehead still pressed against yours, his cock still in your depths, and you felt nearly melt with relief into his arms, completely wrapped up in the warmth of his body. A gust of wind blew from the window, but the sheets shielded your entwined, sweaty bodies. Michael's weight made it hard for you to breathe, but he didn't move.  
Several minutes seemed to have already passed and your hands gently brushed his back. Michael lifted his head, his face straight in front of you, his eyes sparkling and boring into yours. His hands crept under your body, wrapped you in a warm, strong hug that held you firmly against his chest, and his face dipped into your hair, gently nuzzling it. His hands caressed your body, pressed against your skin as if he feared you might slip through his fingers, his lips kissed you through your hair with an absurd, unbelievable gentleness.

He had never done anything like that.

Michael slightly loosened his embrace, so that he could look at your face again, a strange twinkle sparkled in his eyes and his gaze traveled over every inch of your face, as if he wanted to capture every detail, imprinting it indelibly in his mind; he looked at your half-closed eyes, your soft lips, your bruised neck, your scattered hair and then his gaze returned into your eyes.  
His attention seemed more and more focused on you as the grip of his hands around your body tightened, trapping you against him, the muscles of his arms almost trembling, his own rumbling heartbeat vibrating from his chest into yours. A strong stirring gathered in your stomach, everything seemed imbued with a yearning need that couldn't be satisfied, Michael's very silence made that unidentified need even more poignant.  
You felt Michael's gaze wrapping around your very soul and pulling you to him, his arms seemed to hold back from squeezing you harder just to avoid suffocating you in his embrace. It was as if he didn't want to let you go, as if he never wanted to end those moments. Everything seemed suspended, motionless, as if time no longer existed and you, completely enraptured by the warmth of his unusual aftercare, by that strange, new sparkle that was shining in his eyes, realized that this was a different moment, a moment you had never shared together before.  
It was goodbye. His forced and unwanted goodbye.

He would have made that night eternal if he had had the ability. But he had to let you go.  
In fact, it was one thing to sneak alone and unseen into a guarded hospital, then into your room, make no noise, it was quite another to sneak out of there, dragging you away with him, without even having a new place to lock you up and keep you under control. It was too risky.  
As reluctant as he was, Michael knew he had to be more cautious and that meant letting you go. Just for now. Postpone your reunion to a safer and calmer circumstance, that could have been more under his direct control.  
He would have made that night eternal if he had had the ability. But, despite his tight embrace around your helpless body, despite his unquestionable, indisputable will, Michael had to let you go.  
An unexpected sob shook you and you swallowed it, your neck stiffened, your lips tightened. Michael's gaze remained fixed in your eyes as he closed in on you, brushing against your lips with a tender, affectionate kiss. He lifted himself to face you again, staring at you as he finally pulled out and, shortly after, your body slightly jolted at the sensation of some viscous trickles of his cum snaking out and dribbling between your folds. He barely shifted to the side, his hand slid from under your body towards your legs. Long fingers searched for your entrance and, touching his own substance between your folds, he glanced down and then returned to look into your eyes. Never taking his gaze away from yours, he collected his dripping cum to plunge it back into you and, when he was satisfied, he opened one of your legs more. His hand wandered along your inner thigh and, as soon as the raised skin of your scar slid beneath his palm, his hand stopped. Michael, without ever stopping staring into your eyes, settled himself more comfortably between your legs and, sure to have your full attention, placed a fingertip somewhere on your scar. His gaze returned intense and inscrutable, overwhelming, and you had no choice but to stand by and be ready to obey him, whatever his command was. Michael brought his face a little closer to yours and, staring at you insistently, moved his fingertip to slowly draw a vertical line on your scar. He paused for a moment and drew a second line, shorter and more oblique, followed by an opposite one and then another, longer and vertical. He had just traced his "M" carved and scarred in your flesh. He paused again, then his fingertip landed exactly on the "I" and tracked it slowly, so that you too could visualize it together with him. Your mouth barely opened, in your mind his deep and husky voice was already reading the word engraved in your flesh, repeating it in an endless, horribly mesmerizing loop as his finger slowly ran over it. Michael kept on, accurately tracing the "N" as well, seeing in your eyes how his voice had already started reading his mark in your mind, over and over again. His fingertip tracked the first short line of the "E", then the second, and, tilting his head, he brought his cheek next to yours. His fingertip drew the third line and moved on the fourth, longer one. And, as his fingertip slowly drew the last line, his lips brushed against your cheek. You felt the moist warmth of his breath caressing your skin, as Michael, in his deep, graveling voice hoarse from disuse, murmured in your ear once again the word that would never leave you:

"Mine."

A simple word that had remained stuck in your mind since that night, that kept horrifying you, shaking you to the core.  
Michael had never needed to repeat that word, he knew he had imprinted it all too well in your mind: so why was he doing it right now?  
A bad feeling gripped your stomach and, shaken and confused, you breathed deeply as Michael, lifting his head back to face you, returned to pierce through you with a relentless and burning gaze. A dangerous smirk curled the corners of his lips as he slowly dragged his hand from your scar up, along your hip bone, until he placed it on your abdomen. And, without taking his eyes off yours, he caressed your belly and whispered again:

"Both mine."

Your eyes widened, terrified and incredulous, your mouth dropped while his lips parted and his face broke out in an unsettling, malevolent grin that you managed to glimpse just before he closed in on you. And before you could even react, he kissed you, keeping you trapped beneath him, sucking your every moan. Your body remained stiff as Michael pushed harder against your mouth, kissing you so greedily that he seemed furious. His hand moved from your abdomen to your inner thigh and squeezed your flesh, stroked roughly your scar, while his whole body pressed harshly against you. He broke your kiss and looked back at you, with ferocious, frenzied eyes, his fingers still squeezing your soft flesh as his other hand seized you by your hair. Long fingers tangled in it and he, panting on your face, tugged sharply on your scalp, exposing your bruised neck and keeping your head pinned straight in front of him. His eyes pierced through you mercilessly, his gaze cold and sharp, despite his searing, sick affection lingering behind.

He knew.

Somehow, Michael knew he got you pregnant and now, forced to opt for an unwanted goodbye, he made sure you kept obeying him, doing what HE wanted you to do, because, even if you were no longer in that decrepit house, chained to that old bed, you remained bound to him anyway. You were always and however his.  
You thought back at how he behaved. His ferocious and affectionate gaze, his warm and strong touch, his longing to make that night eternal, they weren't only his demonstrations of the indissoluble bond he had chosen for both of you. They were a solemn promise, but also a threatening warning. Michael Myers would come back for you and what he wanted you to do was to wait for him faithfully and nourish the most recent proof of your bond, the fruit of his seed in you, of your union. Just like a true lover, faithful and devoted to him. The creature growing in your womb was just a means like any other, another thing that tied you together, a mere extension of his sick idea of love, of life as a couple with you. There was no sense of right or wrong in him about it, it was just about the idea of a part of himself growing inside you, something he was creating with you; it was just a way like any other to own you entirely. It didn't matter how innocent that creature was, how absurd and insane that idea was. Michael somehow knew and had already made the decision for you. As always. And as always, you weren't allowed to have an opinion, you weren't allowed to desire anything other than what HE had established. You were his, everything about you belonged to him. Even the innocent creature he created with you. He would soon be gone, but his threatening love, your bond, would have to remain unchanged until his return. Whatever you did, wherever you went, you'd still be tied to him. Still confined in that house with him.

Michael yanked you by the hair and you snapped back to reality, his domineering eyes were piercing yours, his jaw clenching. He paused, staring at you. He seemed to be expecting something. Your vision wavered, watered, your confused, frightened gaze sought answers in his. Michael narrowed his eyes slightly, his other hand, still on your scar, squeezed your inner thigh again, bruising it. You whimpered, but Michael silenced you, kissing you again, greedily, violently, and then he pulled away from your lips and tugged at your hair again. He remained still, his fingers sinking into the flesh of your inner thigh, his gaze even more imperious and cold. You stammered, terrified and helpless, and Michael wheezed, tugging at your hair again and clutching your scarred flesh in his other hand. A mute panic stirred in your stomach and Michael, still squeezing your sore inner thigh, kissed you abruptly, just a few seconds, and then broke your kiss. His parted lips rested on yours, his breath hot and panting, his shining eyes bored into you beyond words. The hand in your hair was like an iron grip, the other one dug its fingernails into your flesh and you, petrified and oppressed by his threatening and yet poignant gaze, felt the tears forming at the corners of your eyes. Michael wanted something from you - no, he was peremptorily demanding it - and you felt more and more crushed under the enormous weight of that absurd tension. His eyes shone with that strange glow, his insistent gaze seemed to tear you apart and burn you from inside. You closed your eyes, confusion and panic stirred in your mind, and Michael kissed you again, tugged at your hair, forced you to stay with him, to understand his words made of silence. His hand pressed against your scar, his mark, his love token, and you reopened your eyes: the extreme possessiveness in his brutal touch, the overwhelming and menacing fervor of his promise, the impending and forced goodbye.

And you understood.

Michael broke your kiss again, his parted lips hovering over yours, his heavy breath hot on your skin.  
He was staring at you, he was waiting.  
Another tug and hot tears poured down from your eyes. He had already decided for you. He would always decide for you. Michael was everything, your entire existence was Michael. You were doomed, you had no choice but to resign yourself, to obey. You sought consolation, you thought back to that real and exclusive feeling that you had glimpsed in the depths of his being. You could have accepted it. You just had to let everything go.  
The hand in your hair tugged on your abused scalp again and any other choice vanished. He needed it, he needed it now, you were the only one. And you had no choice but to accept his love, letting everything else go. Michael kept staring at you, his poignant, yearning gaze plunged into your eyes, merged with your being and you, weeping and trembling, nodded. His eyes had the slightest flinch, his breath caught.  
He was waiting. He was listening.  
The hand on your inner thigh stopped squeezing, opened slowly, his thumb was now gently stroking your scar and you, completely resigned to your fate, tearfully looked him in the eyes. His promise alone wasn't enough. He wanted - he was peremptorily demanding - your promise, too. And you, in a faint, trembling voice that sounded so unfamiliar, so distant from yourself, tore that thick veil of tension and silence, looking Michael in the eyes and murmuring with the slightest whisper:

"Yours."

The ferocity in Michael's eyes softened, his face gradually relaxing, while everything in you collapsed, sinking into the gaping, dark abyss that opened beneath you. And as the hand in your hair loosened its grip, his gaze became disgustingly doting, his face came close to yours and he nuzzled you with his cheek. His hands slid under your body, wrapped around your shoulders and waist, hugging you against his chest, your whole body pressed flush against his, trapped in the most suffocating embrace. His hips rolled forward and he, keeping his cheek pressed against yours, started rubbing himself between your legs, your body melted in his grip as your mind, completely emptied, was swallowed up deeper and deeper into the abyss.  
Michael peeled off from your cheek, his face returned to yours, his blazing eyes, aggressive and loving at the same time, grabbed your very being again. He kept rubbing himself against you, his laboured breath was warm on your face and you could no longer even sink into that dark abyss, kept afloat by the iron grip of his gaze; you could see nothing but his eyes and they were sparkling, they were clenching you, twisting your guts as the emptiness grew greater in your stomach. Your whole being, your whole existence converged in those eyes, and they were your destiny, your curse. You could no longer do anything, you could no longer aspire to anything. You had said it, like a promise, and you always kept your promises. You would never have coped with something like this, you would never have been able to explain something like this, you would never have been free. That was just the way it was. Game over. You could only drift away into him.

Michael panted, his dreamy eyes lost in yours, and he rushed to your lips with little patience, kissing you fervently, devouring you. His arms held you, squeezed you in a smothering hug, his fingers digging into your skin as he kept grinding against you. Michael shoved his tongue into your mouth as deep as he could, rubbed it against yours, forced you to kiss him back; you did it, and he sucked your tongue into his mouth, almost hurting you, assaulting your lips eagerly, while his cock was hardening between your legs. You could barely breathe, your hands tried to push him away just to not feel so crushed in his suffocating embrace. He sensed it, broke away from your lips, panting hard and loud, looking at you with wide, frenzied eyes, full of his sick, all-consuming love, mad with that ferocious lust that kept being fueled by the surrender in your eyes, by your love promise, by the idea that you two had finally become one single being.

He dragged his hands from under your body and rose slightly, allowing you to breathe more easily, his gaze traveling from your face down to your naked body and then back into your eyes. One of his hands hastly grabbed yours, bringing it to his cock, gesturing you to stroke it. You swallowed, obeyed. He was already half hard and the more your hand stroked it, the harder his cock became. Michael was panting louder, one hand pressed into the mattress, making it dip, the other hand grabbed your chin. His thumb rubbed over your lips, slipped into your mouth, prodded at your tongue; you licked his finger and his eyes dipped to half-lidded, just for a moment, before he pulled it out, wiping it across your lips and cheeks and kissing you again. He rutted into your hand, pushed himself harder, grinding against you eagerly and you kept stroking him, feeling the blood pulsing in him, his soft growls muffled in your mouth. Your wrist started to ache and Michael drove harder against your palm, your hand faltered, unable to keep the pace in the little space you had; he growled again and broke your kiss, lifting himself up, his hand grabbed yours still wrapped around his cock, stopping it and placing it on the mattress. He stared at you for only a few seconds, his cock, painfully hard, twitched and he, sitting on his calves, grabbed your legs and pressed them together. He bent over you and, seizing you by the waist, flipped you over onto your stomach.

Michael leaned over you, his burning chest pressed flush against your back, his heartbeat thundering, reverberating through you. He wrapped one hand around your midsection while the other grabbed your pillow and tucked it under you, so as to keep your face down on the mattress and your butt more lifted. He detached from your back, his hands moved, sliding along your thighs and hitched the hem of your hospital gown up and over your lower back; then he grabbed and spread your legs and positioned himself better behind you. One hand rested on your ass, while the other lined his cock against your pussy, his fat, throbbing tip nudging against your entrance. Then Michael placed his other hand on your ass and, tightening his grip, he lifted you off the pillow, keeping your hips raised and your upper body on the bed. He started to rub his cock against your pussy, moving your ass in sync with his hips, watching as his cock slid smoothly between your folds, as your pussy grew wet.

Michael was taking his moment, letting his cock lazily glide against you, teasing your clit, stroking your entrance, giving you a further feel for his size as his cock hardened and got coated with your essence. His breath was laboured, his grip around your hips tightened, his fingers sank deeper into your flesh and he stopped; a hand moved from your ass to his cock, its tip nudged and pressed against your entrance. Panting loudly, Michael put his hand back on your ass and, holding you firmly by your hips, he thrust inside you in one motion. You sucked in air, your mouth wide open, you tried to arch your back to better accommodate him, but it wasn't necessary because Michael had already and abruptly stopped, only half of his cock inside you. You felt him stiffen, huffing and puffing as his cock twitched inside you. He remained still, stunned by the dripping heat of your walls wrapped around him, trying hard not to cum on the spot. The grip on you remained strong while his breath slowed down. He regained control, his grip loosened, his hands sliding across your ass before stretching your skin taut, spreading your buttocks. He slowly dragged his cock out of you, leaving only the tip inside; you got sense Michael's eyes were on his dick as he repeated the movement: only half of his huge cock kept lazily sliding in and out of you, again and again, idly rubbing and pressing against your walls.  
Michael kept rocking against you, watching his cock drag out each slow dive inside your pussy, savouring each slick caress of your warm walls around him, of your essence coating him. The grip on your ass got stronger while you indulged more and more in his sloppy thrusts, in the morbid pleasure that grew in you every time he slid in and out, gently grinding against you, rubbing against your sweet spot, squeezing every drop of pleasure he could.

The pressure in your depths was building up, you were close to zoning out from everything entirely, when Michael, pulling almost fully out and stopping, brought you back to reality. You felt him hastily readjust his position behind you, taking a deep, shuddering breath. You opened your eyes wide, you trembled: he had finished preparing you. Now it was time for the main feast. Aware of the fact that Michael was too big and feeling his strong sense of urgency, you tried to adjust your position, so as to better channel him inside you and reduce the pain of when he would have brutally assaulted your cervix. But Michael held you still, squeezing harder the bruised flesh of your hips, so you, understanding that you weren't allowed to move, couldn't help but close your eyes and press your face against the bed, hoping to resist as best you could his surely brutal assault.

His heavy breathing marked those grueling, endless moments of waiting, until Michael, with a single, inexorable thrust, shoved completely inside you. His huge cock tore at your walls and split you in two, inch by inch, dragging a prolonged, uncontrollable moan from your lips that you tried to muffle in the mattress, so as to keep silence. He plunged completely inside you, until his fat tip crashed into your cervix and his pelvis collided with your rear. You felt your stomach pushed up as he kept stabbing his lenght inside you, as if he wanted to cram all himself into you. You shut your eyes tight and squirmed and moaned piteously while he tipped forward, keeping himself completely plunged in you; Michael curled over your body, his face came closer, lips brushing your ear as he quietly and barely audibly shushed you, reminding you to keep silence.  
Another rush of fear ran through you and all you knew was that you had to obey, to fully trust him. You opened your eyes, nodding meekly and, trying to relax, you let Michael, as always, do with you whatever he wanted.

He rose up, the slight tug at your ass indicated his appreciation for your cooperation. You swallowed and Michael moved back on his knees, adjusting the angle of his cock in your depths. Keeping you still, he drew large circles with his hips, letting you feel every single inch of his huge cock rotating between your walls, brushing your clit with his wiry pubic hair. He then slowly pulled back and waited a few moments: you knew he was savoring your tension, your fear in anticipation of the pain you were expecting, bathing in his utter and complete control over you. Michael panted, his tight grip on your hips turned steely as he, in a single merciless motion, slammed into you.  
You gritted your teeth, ready to feel the sharp pain of your assaulted cervix, but surprisingly it didn't happen. Michael penetrated you completely, but stopped right before harming you, the head of his cock kissing your cervix, smoothly rubbing against that deep sweet spot. He pulled back and plunged into you again, deep and smooth, with the same incredible accuracy, at a brutally perfect angle, sending waves of pleasurable tingling and vibrations through your body, and you, amazed and stunned by that new, electrifying pleasure, were even grateful for his commitment not to hurt you.

His thrusts gradually increased, faster and powerful, until he launched into a brutal, animalistic pace, his hands forcing you to meet each of his mighty thrust, while yours were desperately grasping the sheets. Every push was perfect, brutally perfect, and you found yourself furrowing your brows and begging him in silence, melting around him with ease.  
Michael kept shoving it inside you, grinding against you, his cock felt bigger and bigger each time he rubbed against your sweet spots, the jolts of your body reduced only by the iron grip of his massive hands on your bruised hips. With every thrust, with every push that Michael ground against you, you felt every thought vanish, your mind completely blank, ready to be guided by the most primal impulses that Michael unleashed in you. He was plunging into you, struggling to hold his panting breathing, while yours followed his pattern, coming out in fast, warm puffs wheezed through the sheets; and the more he slammed into you, abused all your pleasurable spots, the more your need grew.

The pressure in your abdomen was building up, expanding, your mind completely absorbed in that basic, dark pleasure. You were once again naked, completely exposed to him, as he fucked you hard, like an animal, like the nonhuman force he was. It was disgusting, obscene, and yet everything you wanted was to get carried away, let yourself be dominated and absorbed by his sick and primal display of power and love. It was all disgustingly primitive and yet there was more. His morbid and inexplicable obsession with you, his inordinate lust at the mere thought of knowing that you belonged to each other: Michael thrust deep inside you, squeezed every drop of pleasure from your body like a fierce and hungry beast, and yet he didn't lose control. He didn't want to make you scream, he didn't want to hurt you. There was more, and you felt it in the intensity of his every touch, in every penetrating, burning look he had imprinted in your very being. The more Michael devoured you, the more you felt yourself descending down to your roots, to the depths of your unconscious, until you lost yourself in your own dark meanders, abandoning yourself to the man who could take possession of you as if you had always belonged to him.  
And suddenly, what was disgusting and obscene became alluring and thrilling, a fatal and inevitable attraction that made you quiver and tremble to the depths of your mind. The more Michael filled you with his sick love, the more your wicked pleasure grew. All your fears, all your worries seemed to dissolve as you abandoned yourself to that twisted obscenity, as you gave yourself over to the man who, while humiliating and dominating you, wanted to take care of you. The man who would never leave you. The man for whom you were the only one.

The monstrous man who just wanted to be loved by you.

Something inside you broke entirely, whirling forces rumbled and came from the depths of your rift, washing through you with a feeling of inner bliss. And suddenly, what was disgusting and obscene became bright and ecstatic. Liberating and absolute.

You were feeling high, Michael kept plunging into you, and with each animalistic thrust, his grunts rumbled more in his chest. A hand let go of your ass, twisted long fingers through your hair up to your scalp and, never stopping abusing your pussy, he pulled you by the hair, your moan choked in your throat by your own back arching. Your hands wandered, sought any surface to grasp onto, as Michael held you pressed against his chest. His cock slid out of your pussy and his other hand rushed to push it back inside you. As you felt him press in, you rolled your hips towards him and he, grinding against you, slipped in you again and wrapped his hand around your waist; he steadied your position, holding your rear flush with his crotch, as he kept grinding against you, his cock spearing at your front wall, rubbing again against that deep, pleasurable spot. The hand in your hair suddenly let go, making you fall back down on the bed, and it joined the other one around your waist, encircling you; Michael, holding your ass lifted, kept brutally thrusting and grinding against you, filling you in a frenzied need, wet and obscene sounds came out of your pussy each time his pelvis slapped against your ass, your slick folds suctioning onto his skin, his hairy pubic bone tickling your clit.

He pushed fully inside you, his own balls pressed against your pussy, and remained immersed; then he shifted his weight forward and hunched over your back, pressing your pelvis down, between his body and the folded pillow beneath you. Michael adjusted his position, dragging himself over you, one hand came near your head, making the bed dip, the other hand still wrapped around your waist, his cock still immersed in you. Rotating between your thighs, he readjusted the angle inside you and, never letting go of your waist, rocked against you, his cock going back and forth, rubbing against all your sweet spots. You remained helpless under his body, your mouth open, your mind empty, your eyes staring at his arm next to you, watching his protruding veins, the way his hand sank into the mattress every time he plunged into you. You felt him drag his other hand from your waist down, between your legs and the pillow, where his fingers found your neglected clit and started to work circles against it, smoothly, deliberately. Your eyes rolled up for a moment, another rush of excitement ran through you, your pussy clenched down as Michael kept rocking against you, fueling the flames inside you.

His pace increased, his thrusts became more powerful, his cock plunged and rubbed against you before falling away. And with each thrust, you felt his abdominals contract against your back, you watched how his veiny forearm barely swayed, while his other hand was tapping and circling around your clit; every part of his strong and muscular body reminded you how he was able to use and overcome you as he pleased, how easily he could end your life, but also how he instead chose to make an exception for you, trying even to satisfy you and, paradoxically, making you feel protected. You were probably as sick as him, but your mind was no longer able to think, to understand. There was only his obsessive, sick love to give your life a meaning. There was only Michael.

The pressure in your core grew, expanded, tightened the knot as he kept impaling you, filling you entirely, taking all of you; and with each thrust and push, your moans became harder to hold. Michael bent the arm supporting his weight and fell completely on you, one hand rubbing your swollen clit, the other sliding up and down your torso, where he could knead your breasts, sending goosebumps all over your body. His face dove into the side of your neck, he breathed in your scent eagerly and his cock twitched, his pace quickened, ripping another moan out of you. The pressure in your core seemed about to explode, the tight knot so ready to snap and the more he panted on your cheek, the more that insane passion pervaded you. He was hot, he was like a furnace, and you wanted to touch him, immerse yourself in his scent, feel him all inside and through you. You wanted more, all you could handle and more.

You found yourself grinding and pushing against him while he kept slamming in you, making you gasp and moan, his name being desperately whispered over and over, the pressure in your core unbearable. You were close, so damn close. You just needed his touch. Michael indulged for a moment in the desperate exhilaration spelled all over your face, the mess you were in, and when he pressed his tongue flat against your cheek, your body quivered for him. His tongue brushed over your cheek, dragging up your skin and, letting go your breast, he squeezed you so tightly against him that you feared to explode. You pushed yourself hard against him, felt the blazing pleasure of his hand against your clit and his cock abusing your depths. You needed him, you needed him now, right now, and your hand hurried to touch him, running its fingers through his long hair, tangling themselves into it. And you pulled him to you, kept him flush against you. Michael groaned deeply in your ear, the graveling, quiet sound as a reminder that he was there and wasn't going to leave you, the closest to a reassuring response you could ever get from him; and with him rocking and pushing against you, your pussy clenched, sucked him deep. His lips remained pressed against your cheek as his fingers tapped and stroked your clit harder, pulling you right to the edge. Your pussy was wrapped tight around his cock and, as soon as you clenched down again, you felt him smile against your skin.  
It was all you needed.  
The huge wave swelled into your depths, rushing from far away, preparing to overwhelm you, unstoppable, unbridled. Your back arched, your muscles tensed up and trembled and, as even more moans escaped uncontrolled and loud from your lips, Michael snapped and quickly dragged his hand from your torso to your face, pressing your mouth shut and stifling your every sound. His full weight pressed against your body as he kept fucking you hard, causing your pressure to explode. Another burning stroke at your clit, another perfect deep thrust and you felt stuffed full of his whole being. The tight knot inside you snapped and Michael broke through you, pervading you entirely. The giant wave crashed over you, hitting you with raw, acute pleasure that spread and poured into your depths, expanding, electrifying every nerve in your body. Everything vanished, everything but the pulsing, scorching pleasure that kept growing and intensifying, expanding and reaching every part of you. The waves didn't stop, the aching, boiling pleasure washed over you relentlessly, overwhelming you, it throbbed deeper and deeper, spreading all over and engulfing you in an ecstatic bliss that reverberated throughout your whole being. Your pussy was clenching tight around his huge, marvelous cock, your eyes were lost in the back of your head, your every pant and moan muffled in the calloused palm of his hand. Michael was still pounding into you, his face pressed against the side of your neck, his howl barely chocked in his throat, as his cock was being sucked into you by the great power of your orgasm. Riding its wake, he kept fucking you as he chased his own end and soon his thrusts became more uneven. One last, mighty push, and Michael, tensing up, stopped, buried as deep as he could into you. His body trembled and, as you floated in the bliss of your ecstasy, his cock swelled and throbbed and Michael, with an almost painful groan that rumbled and vibrated against your neck, released another load of hot cum into you, flooding your walls and prolonging the wake of the most powerful orgasm you had ever experienced in your life.

-

The bliss of the afterglow came gently, soothing and enveloping like a warm and comforting embrace.  
Michael had collapsed on you, your bodies entwined and joined. His arms were still holding you close to him, his long hair was scattered all around you, your faces hidden from the world. Everything that was outside the curtain formed by his hair had vanished. Everything, except you and him, joined together to form one body.  
Your waning breaths faded, softly enfolded by a peaceful silence, letting the quiet of that clear night return to lazily envelop everything.

You could barely keep your eyes open, you were exhausted, completely spent, your own breathing fatigued by Michael's weight on you and his hand still loosely covering your mouth. You felt him recover much faster than you and he didn't take long to move. Michael nuzzled your neck with his face, taking a deep breath of your scent again, then released your mouth and dragged his other hand from under your body, his palms on the bed on either side of you; he rose up and slowly pulled out.  
He remained sitting on his knees and, once he readjusted himself, his hands came back to your ass. You didn't need to turn around to know that he was watching the result of his assault, of him marking his territory.  
He kept staring as your muscles twitched, tickled by the sensation of his cum slowly seeping out of you and, moving the pillow and parting more your lips, he let his essence drip freely on the sheets. When he was satisfied, his hand landed on your pussy, smearing his release all over it and wiping his hand across your scar. His seed on his mark, on the symbol of your union.  
As soon as he finished, Michael grabbed you by the waist and flipped you over onto your back, your exhausted body handled like you were a ragdoll. You were a mess. A total, absurd mess. He kept looking at you and leaned forward, his hand wiped stray locks of hair away from your face, his touch felt gentle as if he were caressing you. His hand lingered on your chin and slid down, resting slackly on your neck, his eyes wandering along you, your tired face, your parted lips, your torn hospital gown, the pale skin of your naked body poking out, riddled with darkening hickeys and bruises: Michael was contemplating you, rapt, while you remained lying, supine and silvery. And time stood still in your room. Stopped by the man who wanted to turn that night into eternity.

His gaze shifted from your eyes and lowered, the hand on your neck wrapped around it, strong fingers digging slightly into your skin, just enough to feel your softness, your pulse, and then reopened; followed by his gaze, his hand slid lower to your chest, your heartbeat against his palm. Michael tilted his head and his hand moved again, caressing your breasts and sliding down your ribs, your waist, the curve of your hip, and he stopped there. His eyes traveled up, piercing yours, burning holes through yours, and, closing in on you, Michael kissed you again, gently.  
Almost tenderly.  
He paused and opened his eyes, his parted lips resting on yours, his warm, steady breathing on your skin. Then he dragged his face down to the side of your head, smelled the scent of your skin and hair. You felt his body move slightly, his hand left your hip and reached for the bedside table. As Michael rose up, his arm followed and his hand was holding his knife. You winced, a shiver of fear ran down your spine, you watched at him with your eyes wide open, confusion and fear shining through. His armed hand came to your neck and rested on it, his knuckles sank into your jugular notch, while the other hand slid under your head, cupping it and lifting it slightly. The edge of the blade dangerously grazed against your throat and your breathing quickened, your eyes wide open and still, pure panic froze you entirely.  
Michael eyed you keenly and a miniscule flinch flashed as the hand behind the back of your head retracted, letting your head loll back on the mattress and gathering in this way your hair in his palm. He brought a lock of your hair closer to his armed hand and, pressing and sliding it against the edge of the blade, still dangerously brushing your throat, cut it clean. You gulped and Michael, never taking his eyes off yours, brought your fragrant tuft of hair to his nose, smelling it deeply before tucking it into his upper pocket.  
He was back at it again.  
Your panties first, now your hair. Those weren't just keepsakes. They were pledges, they were promises. History repeating itself, exactly like he did before he abducted you. History was already repeating itself, and the only difference was that you already knew what to expect. You knew what, sooner or later, would inevitably happen.  
His piercing eyes bored into yours, dug long claws into your depths, imprinting his rules in your mind and all you could do was to obey, to be faithful to him. You knew Michael had to let you go now, but those little tokens, that intense gaze, those words whispered in your ear, they were both his warning and promise: Michael Myers would come back for you, you would be together again.  
A shiver ran down your spine and in front of that simple fact, in a frighteningly automatic way, your mind could answer you in the only way it knew: you belonged to him, just like his voice was already repeating it in your brain.  
And as you well knew by now, Michael always got what he wanted. Your only choice was between letting it happen with his brutality or his kindness.

It wasn't a difficult choice.

Reading clearly your thoughts in your gaze, Michael put down his knife, relaxed his posture and a faint smile crept across his mouth. He pushed his hair back, tucking it behind his ears and his face, illuminated by the light of the silvery moon, was open and visible. He was so scary, he was so sick, and yet so irresistibly alluring, darkly magnetic, his strong features softened by an aura of pure bliss, his eyes sparkling in yours and you couldn't help but feel trapped in his dark seduction, completely enraptured by that angelic and cold-blooded face, by those ferocious and infinite eyes that showed affection only to you.  
Michael remained looking at you, content and pleased; then he tilted his head and, giving you a fleeting knowing look, turned to retrieve his mask. After gathering his long hair, Michael put on his mask, grabbed his knife and stood up. With slow, silent footsteps, he walked over to you and sat down, the bed dipped under his weight. The inky black eyes bored into your tired ones, let glimpse his real eyes only for a moment. He leaned down on you, his nose inches from yours and, still staring at you, Michael lifted the edge of his mask, allowing his lips to kiss yours once more. He was sweet, gentle and before you knew it you were already basking in his kiss.  
Michael paused, savored you one more time before gently pulling away from your lips and, turning his head, he glanced at the sheets, crumpled and no longer pristine. He looked back at you and, pulling down his mask, he stood up and reached for the blankets. Taking one last look at your naked and bruised body, framed with the hospital gown that he had cut himself, he pulled the covers up, tucking you in slowly, gently.  
Almost mockingly.  
And you didn't need to look at the face hidden behind the pale, expressionless mask to know that Michael was actually secretely grinning.  
That care in pulling your covers up was simply the final touch of the artist who had just signed his work of art.  
It was a message. But not for you, no.  
As he tilted his head slowly, admiring you as his masterpiece, you knew that was his message to whoever found you tomorrow. The dark marks on your neck, peeking out, would immediately catch the eye of the attentive nurse. With a sense of eerie suspicion, the covers would be pulled up and your torn hospital gown would show your body, completely naked and riddled with new hickeys and bruises. And, lastly, the sheets that were so pristine and clean would reveal the unmistakable traces of his white substance that didn't need any forensic analysis to reveal the identity of the man they belonged to. The nurse's eyes would pop in sheer horror while spreading the news. And so, everyone would know that Michael Myers, in the blink of an eye, had already found you and, silently and right under their noses, had already claimed you. No trap, no misdirection, no guard outside your door could have ever stopped him. His wordless message would speak frighteningly loud and clear: you were his and nothing and nobody would stop him from taking you back.

Michael cupped your face, one last, delicate caress and, as his hand lingered a little longer on your cheek, you knew that, with that shameless taunt, he was silently daring anyone to get between you and him.  
And who would really want to challenge Michael Myers?  
No, you couldn't have done anything but wait for him.

The warmth of his hand still lingered on your cheek, even though he had already vanished into the night. The open window he had left behind, the breeze that blew into your room. Sure signs he would be back. Everything reminded you of your destiny. Everything reminded you that you belonged to him. No matter what, he would be back to take you with him.

You unwound yourself from the blankets and sat on the bed, something rustled beside you. You turned and noticed a crumpled piece of paper on the mattress. You grabbed it, unfolded it: it had been ripped from a bigger sheet, but it didn't take you long to figure out it came from your medical records. Your eyes read the black letters forming that word as nausea pooled in your stomach and, despite already knowing it, you couldn't avoid the bitter knot that tightened your throat: you were pregnant, it was real. And Michael, somehow, had managed to rip that sheet off undisturbed just to let you find it. His daring taunt to your doctors and the police, his little gift for you, so that you didn't forget the night you had just spent together and the promises you've hidden in its moonlit cloak. You would have crumpled up and thrown away that piece of paper, but part of you forbade it, forcing you to keep it with you.  
With a deep sigh, you turned your head and looked at the window. It was open and the moon was so bright. You got up from the bed and walked barefoot to the window, your torn hospital gown swished, the wind lifted it and scattered your hair. You tried to cover your naked body as best you could, pressing the two halves together.  
Your eyes scanned the surroundings until they were lost in the horizon. Everything was still and quiet, lulled by a delicate play of lights and shadows. A sudden shiver ran down your spine, unmistakable, and you no longer needed to look for the pale face among the shadows, for the dark eyes that reflected your future. You didn't need to look for him because you felt - you knew - that he was already out there, cloaked in darkness. He was watching you. He was waiting, and you knew that he would keep waiting with inhuman patience for the day when he could reunite with you.

You hugged yourself, raised your head and your gaze was lost in the moonlit sky. It was so bright, and yet all you could see was the dark veil hovering over you. Your mind wandered, thought back to that feeble, vain hope you felt during your daring escape. Even if it didn't last long, you had hoped that there was still freedom for you. The police catching Michael before he could find you, your old self returning to life thanks to a psychologist. Deluded. You felt so sorry for yourself... But if only you knew, if only you could, you would probably have been the one eating those poisonous berries.  
You thought, even if only for a few moments, that by escaping from that house you could really have been free. But the truth was that your mind could no longer conceive of freedom if it wasn't Michael to command it, your own mind had remained in that house. Your own mind had become that house. How could you even escape? You thought back to what you had glimpsed in Michael, to that feeling that was so authentic but so wrongly expressed, and a sudden jolt made your heart flutter. If you enjoyed feeling the only one for a creature like him, rather than one of those people he hunted and killed, if you enjoyed the intensity he gave you in your nights spent together, could you really believe your need to escape?  
It hurt too much to think, all of your thoughts were reduced to a dull buzz drifting further and further away, they could only bring you to terrifying conclusions that you weren't ready to acknowledge.

You couldn't.

...What was wrong with you?  
Maybe he was right, or maybe you were just as sick as him. But he really tried to take care of you, he did his best. He somehow even made you feel safe. Maybe, all in all, you could have helped him, taught him what a normal life was. Maybe you wanted peace, not freedom. And all you had to do was be with him, stay loyal to the only bond that still gave you a meaning, an identity. After all, there was nothing left in you but that darkness, that familiar darkness of a thousand facets. Nothing but shades of night.

Your gaze wavered, the moonlight shone in your watery eyes and, while the veil of darkness seemed to expand and envelop you like a thick, almost tangible fog, your mind displayed your future in front of you.  
It wasn't imagination, it wasn't a projected fear. It was real, it was what would really happen sooner or later.  
And what your mind was showing you was the silence of another still and meaningless night. You were alone, wrapped in the dim light of your home. You could see yourself, standing, leaning against the window, as your gaze wandered out, aimlessly, among the familiar shapes of your sleeping neighborhood. And in your mind, just one thought, the only one you could think about. As you abandoned yourself in the quiet stillness of that lonely night, a shiver would have run down your spine; the silence within the walls of your home would have slowly faded as you returned to hear the sound that you would have recognized in a thousand.  
The sound of his breath.  
And, without any need to turn and look behind you, you would have already known that the time of your lonely and meaningless nights was over, because he was back. And, as the thick dark fog enveloped you, darkening the watery vision of the moonlit sky before your eyes, you knew that what your mind was showing you was THAT night.  
The night you would have a meaning again.

The night HE came home!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, my, I can't believe it's finished, damn it! When I decided to share this story, it was meant to be a one shot (the "planned one shot" was what is now Chapter 1 - The Boogeyman), leaving the sequel simply sitting in my mind; I only had a skeleton of the sequel written down, just because, but I didn't plan about writing it. At all! xD Then, I received so good responses and support - and I'm so grateful for this! - that I decided to continue my story, turning it from a one shot to a little series with a bunch of chapters. What I didn't see coming was that now it feels like I had a baby: I'm actually so surprised seeing how long both the final chapter and the whole story had become, what the heck! xD But seriously now, if you've come this far and you're still reading: Thank You! And I mean it. Thank you for giving my story a chance, for kudos, for each comment you left, because I really like knowing your thoughts and feedback: it has surely played a huge role in the joy I had while writing and it has also helped me a lot to improve myself. It's been a blast! I am very, very grateful for everything: THANK YOU from the bottom of my heart!! <3
> 
> Buuuuuuut... Before leaving, I'd like to leave you with some kind of "Curiosity Corner", for those who would like to know some little details about Curse - a "Behind the Scenes" style thingie, lol! So, yeah, if you want to take a peek.. just keep reading! XD
> 
> CURIOSITY CORNER by MyersPumpkin
> 
> TOXIC READER: THE CHOICE OF POISON  
> Initially, I couldn't decide between 3 deadly plants (please, never try them: they truly cause death): belladonna, aconite and oleander. After careful researches, I opted for belladonna for several reasons. First of all, it seems it tastes sweet, so it came in handy; I learnt that, in ancient times, its lethal poison was used to kill enemies by coating blades and arrows, or during feasts by dropping it in drinks such as beer: nobody noticed its taste and ARGH! they were dead. In medieval Europe, the Atropa belladonna was also called "the witches herb" and, given that I was writing a story with big boy Halloween slasher, I couldn't consider a better poison! xD Also the name, "Atropa belladonna", derives from "Atropo", the name of one of the Three Fates (goddesses in Greek mythology), who represents the final fate of death, inevitable and inflexible: a good metaphor for the fact that, just like nobody can't escape Atropo, in my story The Reader can't escape Michael and her curse. The word "belladonna" instead comes from italian language, means "beautiful lady" and refers to the cosmetic use that, back in ancient times, some women made, so as to make their eyes brighter and shiny (hence, those women looked more beautiful - I'd say DEADLY beautiful); in my story, eyes (and gazes) have a fundamental part in the communication between The Reader and Michael, so yes: that poison was definitely the right choice for me!:D Lastly, it seems it was used in witchcrafts and magical potions in order to obtain something at any costs, even love by that special one: a curious similarity that reminded me of my Michael, who wants to be loved by The Reader at all costs! :D
> 
> MASTERCHEF READER: THE CHOICE OF DINNER  
> After choosing belladonna, I needed a dish for the scene in the kitchen. Initially, I had a soup in mind - you know, with Michael slicing potatoes xD - but I needed something faster and that allowed some minutes of inactivity to the cook, so as to match times and methods of the cheeky quickie Michael wanted. I thought to pick up something from Italian cuisine because it gave me a sense of continuity, since the poison I had already chosen has an italian name! So yes, I searched for a random italian dish, but don't ask me the full recipe: I found it on the internet and forgot to save the link I would have attached here! :P
> 
> QUOTING READER: THE CHOICE OF THE LAST LINE  
> Soooo, yes. Halloween (1978) is my favorite Halloween ever and, considering the ending I had in mind for my story, I thought I'd pay homage to the movie that inspired me so much, and I did it by quoting the line you can read on its theatrical release poster! :D  
> If you want to take a look, here it is:  
> https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/thumb/a/af/Halloween_%281978%29_theatrical_poster.jpg/220px-Halloween_%281978%29_theatrical_poster.jpg
> 
> Ooook, the curiosity corner ends here and, damn it, I hadn't the gift of brevity again! xD  
> ..Anyway, if you have come this far, what else to say: THANK YOU ALL FOR EVERYTHING! Stay safe and take care of yourself!! ❤️ ^-^ ❤️

**Author's Note:**

> Oh welllll... I never thought I would have shared this little story of mine, but here we are! I've been feeling kinda "cursed" lately because of my kink for Michael Myers, so I thought that maybe collecting and sharing all my stuff about it will help me to take rid of it! xD  
> That's also why I'm leaving a link here that leads to some paintings I've done about my story: not sure if the link works, but for those who want to take a look, they're just humble self-indulgent fanarts and I hope you don't mind them! :)
> 
> https://sta.sh/22cdv1pzdbik?edit=1
> 
> Last but not least, this is my first proper fanfiction I've ever published, so it's a truly exciting experience I'm glad to share with you all and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! :D


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